


Anam Cara

by Katherine Gilbert (LFN_Archivist)



Category: La Femme Nikita
Genre: F/M, Season/Series 03 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-20
Updated: 2020-03-20
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:34:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 156,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23237011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LFN_Archivist/pseuds/Katherine%20Gilbert
Summary: This story was originally posted to the LFN Storyboard Archives by Katherine Gilbert.
Relationships: Michael Samuelle/Nikita Wirth
Kudos: 3
Collections: La Femme Nikita Storyboard Archives





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The following story is definitely rated NC-17. If you are not of age, do not read this. :) Some chapters, I should probably mention, as well, will include some rough sex. :) There is, too, a bit of bad language interspersed throughout.
> 
> This is set directly after the events of my story, "Sea of Fire," and some knowledge--at least--of my interpretation of "Gates of Hell" would be useful in reading this. :) If you haven't read that particular work, however, you can probably pick up what you need from context, here. :) I know, too, that the series isn't quite going in this direction, but I do think my interpretation can still fit into what we've seen so far; besides, it's really what I feel *should* have happened. :)
> 
> There will be spoilers here for the whole of the Season 3 arc, as well as for "Psychic Pilgrim," "Hard Landing," "Simone," "Escape," "Not Was," "New Regime," "First Mission," "Obsessed," "Off Profile," "Spec Ops," "Third Person," "Approaching Zero," "Nikita," "Mandatory Refusal," "Charity," "Choice," "Cat and Mouse," and "Imitation of Death." The title, too, is Gaelic. It means "soul friend." In older Celtic belief, souls were thought to exist just slightly out of people's bodies; when two "anam cara" met, therefore, their souls would flow together. These friends were believed to have been created before time; they accept you for who you are and help you to birth your own soul. :)
> 
> My thanks to my sister, Armida, for suggesting the above concept to me as a title. :) Especially since she hates the whole idea of Michael and Nikita being together, I really appreciate her thinking in these terms for me. :)

It was an odd feeling to be there, for both of them. Although they had certainly eaten together many times before, they had almost never been able to do so simply for the pleasure of being in each other's company. 

The unique quality of this meal, however, also made it a quiet one. Both Michael and Nikita were happy just to be together, without lies or missions; they felt no need for words to convey this fact. 

Their relative silence, though, had the definite effect of making the wait staff in the restaurant a bit nervous. This couple obviously wasn't, after all, one of those who were together simply because they felt they should be -- who had lapsed into silence with one another to keep from shouting. There was an . . . energy about these two which made just being near them a little nerve-wracking; the fact that they seemed so happy to communicate without words, indeed, gave those beyond them the uncomfortable feeling that they were being talked about in some silent language beyond their understanding. 

Their meal had lasted for many hours by the time it was reaching its end; neither of them were taking a single moment of it for granted. They lingered over every second, filing them all away for future enjoyment -- to treasure when the painful truth of their lives once again came upon them to destroy their peace. 

It was quite late, in fact, by the time they were leisurely sipping coffee and finishing dessert, and the restaurant staff were getting a bit anxious that they might not leave before it was time to close. Both of the quiet diners were aware of this, to a certain extent, but had little interest, really, in what sort of anxieties they might be causing. They were too happy just to be. 

Michael watched Nikita scoop up the last possible spoonful of her creme brulee and deposit the confection into her perfect mouth. He smiled. He practically expected her to pick up the dish and begin licking it clean. And, while he would have enjoyed watching this sensuous -- yet oddly childlike -- gesture, he was rather happy when she didn't; being that aroused in public could be distinctly uncomfortable. 

He did love to watch her eat, though. He smiled warmly, taking in her beauty. She took such enjoyment in a simple meal -- received so much pleasure from small joys. He loved that she could still feel such happiness, that he hadn't robbed her of all of the beauty of her life. He wished that he could spend the rest of his days simply sharing these small moments with her -- that he could focus on nothing but learning pleasure -- with his beautiful beloved as his tutor. 

Nikita licked a bit of her dessert off of her top lip and let out a small, contented noise. They locked eyes, as Michael gave a slightly wistful sigh. 

He looked down at her completely clean plate and then back to her eyes. "Did you enjoy that?" he asked, slightly ironically. 

She tried to repress a smirk and leaned forward to put her elbows on the table, leaning a little toward him -- in a gesture which was as subtly seductive as it was technically improper. Her eyes were warm and slightly flirtatious. "Yes, I did." She propped her head in her hand, looking him over. "And you?" 

He licked his top lip slightly in a way he knew would not be lost on her. "Yes." His eyes, for one of the first times she could remember, had a bit of humor in them. 

She looked him over, a little heatedly. "So, what do we do now?" The stillness of his face was belied by the warmth of his eyes. "We could stay here and make the waiters nervous." 

She laughed slightly, enjoying the sense of humor he was finally showing. "Or?" 

He looked up at the ceiling for a second before refocusing on her. 

"Or we could both go home." 

She pulled back a little, one hand landing on the table. She had misread his humor as a legitimate suggestion. "Alone?" 

He leaned forward, sad that he had even slightly hurt her. His fingers traced over the palm of her hand, his eyes focused there, before he looked up at her. He shook his head. "Not if you don't want to." He refocused on her hand, his expression becoming more serious, his voice softer. "I'd prefer not to be alone tonight, though." 

Nikita's look was all sympathy, as she took hold of his hand. "Then you won't be." 

He looked back up at her, his expression still a little grave, needing to make a point. He shook his head. "It's not a proposition, Nikita." He paused; he was stroking her hand. "I just need . . . company." He closed his eyes and shook his head a little, not wanting her to misunderstand; he refocused on her. "*Your* company." 

Her face contorted slightly, as she tried to keep from crying. She had never heard him so open before -- had never had him ask for her comfort before. She lifted his hand to her mouth and kissed his fingers a few times, before holding it to her cheek, rubbing against it. Her eyes were full of love. "You won't be alone tonight, Michael." 

He sighed slightly from pleasure -- from the joy of having such a beautiful, amazing woman -- one whom he had harmed so deeply and so frequently -- care enough to want to be there for him. She kissed his fingers once more, and he then transferred their linked digits to his own mouth and touched his lips warmly to her hand in return, before silently ordering their check from a waiter who was trying not to appear relieved. 

The two of them returned to Michael's apartment together. It was still a barren place -- one which held no pleasant memories for either of them. Michael's abandoned cello was lying against the chair in his living room, his tv screen still frozen on an image of his son. . . . It was a place which reeked of sadness. 

Nikita unconsciously pulled her coat more firmly around herself, as she entered -- more from the emotional atmosphere than physical cold. 

Michael, following slowly behind her, noticed the move. He then saw Adam's image where he had left it; he sighed in slight anger at himself for forcing her to see it once more, before he started moving with intent to take out the tape he had been obsessing over for days. 

"You don't have to," she tried to stop him. 

"Yes, I do," he replied without looking back. 

She came around quickly to stand in front of him, blocking him from access to the tv. She put a hand on his arm, stroking it. "I don't mind that you love him, Michael. . . . I don't mind that you miss him." She moved her hand up to stroke his face. 

He was looking at the screen, still angry with himself. "You should." He looked past her at the image for another second and then broke softly but insistently from her grasp to eject the tape. 

She sighed. "Michael . . ." She turned to watch him. 

His eyes, as he looked back up at her, were angry. "You think you understand, Ni-ki-ta. . . . You don't." She closed her eyes, his distancing words ripping at her. His voice got softer. "You give me too much credit." 

She opened her eyes again, as he walked around her to the center of the room. Damn it! He was blaming himself again. She turned back to him. "Michael . . ." 

"No." His voice was soft but furious. "I wasn't some loving father who lost a child, Nikita." His breathing was ragged; he wasn't making eye contact with her. "Don't mistake me for a grieving parent." 

Not hard to do, she thought. He was one. 

She took a breath, before trying to softly get his attention once more. "Michael . . ." 

He looked at her in silent rage. "I tried to kill him, before he was even born. I wanted him dead -- never wanted him to have been created." He needed her to understand. "I had the right drug to force Elena to miscarry. . . . If Section hadn't found out about her pregnancy when they did, I would have done it." 

She realized that it was going to take some time to convince him. She moved to lean against a pillar slowly, ready to wait out his anger. "And why did you do that?" 

"Because I didn't want him." 

"*Why*?" she asked, pinning him softly in her stare, attempting to force him to face his own reasons. 

He turned away, fighting self-knowledge. 

She sighed. "You did it, because you didn't want to see him hurt. . . . You didn't want him to be born into a mission -- into a life you knew wasn't real." She took a deep breath, trying to brace herself for his fury. "You were trying to protect him . . . even then." 

He looked back at her, still furious but with a layer of understanding he was trying to deny beneath it. 

She stood back up and approached him cautiously. "You have to admit it someday, Michael, for your own mental health. You loved your son." She was standing an inch in front of him. "Just because you couldn't be the father you wanted to doesn't change that." 

He looked down to his side -- away from her. The truth of her words frightened him -- tore away at the comfortable shell of denial he had built, the one which allowed him to pretend he didn't care. He closed his eyes. 

She touched him softly, running her fingers down his hair. When he didn't flinch away, she leaned in to gently kiss his cheek. "Let me in, Michael. Let me help you." She put her arms around him. 

A tear slipped from his eye, and he tried to pull away -- but she wouldn't let him. She held him more tightly, until his breathing became slightly choked and erratic. "'Kita," he whispered finally, his arms coming up to hold onto her. 

She rubbed her hand down the back of his head and kissed his cheek. "Ssh. It's alright, Michael. I'm here." 

He held her more tightly -- almost painfully close to him -- and buried his face in her neck, his tears running down her skin quietly. "'Kita," he repeated, clinging to the embodiment of all of his hope. 

She kissed at a tear on his cheek. "I won't leave you, Michael." She rubbed her cheek on his temple. "I won't leave." 

*********** 

Michael awoke on the sheeted mattress which passed for his bed early the next morning to find himself holding onto Nikita. His head was nestled under her neck, his arms around her; he sighed contentedly. 

He had simply wept quietly last night, as she had held him -- had offered herself as the balm for the terrible wounds of his soul. She had whispered her love to him, had told him she wouldn't leave. . . . There were no words more beautiful he had ever heard. 

They were both still almost fully dressed -- she still in the red dress she had dined in, he only removing his shoes, socks, jacket, and belt. There had been nothing sexual in their actions last night, but there had been an intimacy far stronger than words. . . . For the first time he could remember, Michael had taken up someone's offer to help -- had allowed someone in. . . . And he couldn't remember ever feeling more free. 

She was still asleep now, her breathing soft and even, her arms around him. He looked up at her happily and then settled his head over her heart, comforted by the strong sound of its steady rhythm. 

He loved her so profoundly that it frightened him at times. She could look straight into his soul without fear -- despite all the dark demons that he knew lurked there. Her beauty wrapped around him, inviting him to linger in the warmth of her presence. . . . He could happily be lost here forever. 

He moved a hand from her back and began to let it trail down her side, enjoying the warm surface of her skin he could sense just beneath the soft fabric of her clothes. He heard a small moan from her, as she slept. 

He raised his head up to breathe in at her neck, loving the subtle scent of her skin, and placed a small kiss on the underside of her throat. "Michael," she moaned, dreaming. 

He looked up at her, running his hand over her hair and trailing the backs of his fingers down the side of her face. . . . She was so overwhelmingly beautiful. And -- even in sleep -- she rubbed her head against his hand, wanting his touch. 

That one move -- and the desire that it hinted at -- made a fierce, overwhelming need rise in him. He needed her -- needed to hold her, to touch her, to taste all of the secret treasures he had so rarely allowed himself to approach. He felt the diversion of blood from his heart, felt the rush of it, as it ran further down to fill his need, making his arousal for her beat -- strong and intense. 

He began to kiss her lips, no longer willing to let her sleep. He was gentle -- tasting them with his tongue before nipping very lightly at them, . . . but his desires did not reflect his tenderness. 

His need for her was too great -- had been denied for too long. He needed to fill and fulfill her -- to possess her completely. . . . He wanted to remind her that there would never be a truth beyond the two of them. 

Nikita awoke finally to the wonderful realization that she wasn't dreaming -- that Michael really was holding her face in his hands, his mouth beginning to possess hers. She moaned and opened her lips to him, allowing him to enter her -- searching deep within in a kiss that overwhelmed her senses. He was already hard against her -- his need throbbing. She groaned and put her hand behind his head, holding him to her. 

They kissed each other with a desire which only increased their passion for one another. It was a kiss which spoke of intense intimacy and spiritual longing. . . . And, the longer it continued, the more intense it became. 

They were both groaning by the time Michael broke from it, biting lightly at her lips. He looked at her with fierce need, his breathing ragged, his eyes very serious. "Tell me to stop, 'Kita. If you don't, I'll ravish you." He was giving her a last chance to back away. 

Her hands were claws on his shoulders. "Michael, if you stop now, I'll hurt you." 

He shook his head; his need was throbbing even more strongly against her. "Don't take this lightly, 'Kita." His breath was uneven and searing against her face. "You have no idea what you'll unleash." 

Far from making her want to pull back, however, his words simply aroused her further. "I'm not afraid of you, Michael." She tried to pull him back into the kiss. 

He kept his head back from her, his eyes heated and deadly serious. His hands roamed possessively up and down her sides, marring the soft material of her dress. His arousal was beating against her fiercely. "Tell me to stop, before I hurt you." 

She shook her head, utterly unafraid. "You won't hurt me -- not here." He started to speak again, and she ran her hands into his hair. "I'm not afraid of you, Michael." She pulled him back into a demanding kiss, ravishing his mouth; he groaned through it. Her teeth grazed his lip, as she pulled back from it momentarily. "Damn the consequences." She took his mouth again, possessing it fiercely. 

He let out a groan which rose from his soul, as he pulled back. "You have no idea what you're asking for." 

"I don't care," she shook her head, her eyes locked to his. She nipped at his lip. "Do your worst," she breathed against him. 

An almost inhuman growl issued forth from him, as he gave up the struggle with his fears. He took hold of her head again and pushed her back deep into the pillows, in a fierce kiss which robbed her of air. The noises which came from him were animalistic. 

A minute or so later, when he released her, she gasped for breath; he had pulled back to look at her. The raging passion she saw -- from his burning eyes -- the raw desire that she was unleashing -- might have frightened her, coming from anyone else. From him, however, it aroused her unspeakably -- sharpened her need to a deadly point. "Yes," she growled, encircling his head in her arms and pulling him back down to her. 

He growled as well, in response, crushing her lips below his. His need for her was dangerous, he knew; that -- not only was she not afraid -- but she was aroused by his desire made it almost cataclysmic. 

He knew then that she would see the depths to which his soul was capable of sinking this morning; when this was over, she would either be bound to him for life or would hate him eternally. . . . Right now, however, he was beyond caring which. 

His hands held onto her hips, his fingers sinking deep into the soft flesh behind her. Still kissing her deeply and brutally, he pulled her up to grind against his arousal through their clothes -- letting her feel the true proportions of his need. 

She groaned at the sensation and held him more deeply in the kiss, becoming fierce. Her nails were becoming painful on his head. 

He pulled back to stare at her with eyes which were inflamed. He ran his hands beneath her skirt, shoving it up her legs to her waist. One hand went behind her to unzip the dress, and he pulled it forward off her shoulders -- trapping her arms slightly, until he had revealed the lacy front of her bra; he leaned down to her, his breath a fire against her face. "You're mine." 

She was breathing irregularly, her nipples straining against the now-uncomfortable fabric of her bra. She didn't feel like she could speak; she was too overcome with the need to be taken by him -- to be the sole and total focus of his desire and attention. . . . She was praying that his earlier threat to ravish her had not been idle. "Yes," was all she managed to breathe. 

He growled and nipped at her lips ungently before pushing her dress up and over her head. Her arms, however, were still caught in it. He smiled a dangerous smile at her and then twisted the material, catching her hands up in it, effectively knotting them over her head. 

Nikita's eyes widened, and her breathing grew more erratic, her taut nipples rubbing against him rhythmically, underneath the thin bra. She could imagine no other man she would willingly allow to do this -- no other man she would want to do this. With him, though -- here, in his bed, she was more than willing -- was even desperate -- to let him have complete control of her. . . . There was no question about trust. 

She didn't struggle at all. In fact, she seemed to soften beneath him -- giving in entirely -- happily -- to his will. "Michael," she whimpered softly. She kissed lovingly at his lips. 

His need began to throb even more fiercely against her; it was beginning to be painful to confine it any longer. That she would allow him so much control made him insane. 

He looked around his hands near the head of the mattress and saw a hammer and some nails he had been using earlier, in some demented attempt at repairs. He picked them up with one hand and then looked back at her. "Hold completely still," he ordered -- his eyes noting just how important this was. She nodded. He took a nail and held it in the middle of the knot of material her dress had become -- between her hands. With one blow of the hammer, he attached the now-ruined dress to the floor, binding her hands there. 

Nikita smiled at him, her body even softer beneath his. "Michael," she murmured adoringly. 

He returned his attention to her now. What aroused him most in the situation was truly his subconscious knowledge that she could free herself at any time; her bonds were not physically effective. It was obvious, however, that she had no desire to free herself -- that she was incredibly aroused and happy to be subject to his will here. . . . He could think of few things more erotic. 

His hands returned to her sides -- holding her, as his thumbs rubbed over her aroused nipples. "Want me to stop?" he asked, knowing full well -- but wanting to hear -- her answer. 

"No," she whimpered. She rubbed her breasts up at his hands. 

"Michael, more." She had already become almost entirely monosyllabic. 

He smiled at her and leaned down to softly rub his lips against hers, enjoying every second of the control she had given him. He ran his tongue out to taste her -- teasing her with its tip. She whimpered and tried to capture his mouth. 

He gave her a brief kiss and then moved out of her range to begin roaming down her cheek. He stopped for a minute to bite and suckle at her earlobe, occasionally kissing behind it, to her moan. Then, his teeth began to bite softly down her neck, as she shuddered beneath him. 

He found a sensitive spot just below her jaw and began suckling at it, running his teeth over it in light bites from time to time. She whimpered again and tried to angle her neck further into his mouth. "More," she pleaded. 

He bit her there more firmly, and she groaned; her body filled with incredible warmth at the sensation -- flooding through her to sharpen the erotic ache she felt. "Yes," she moaned. He did it again, and she groaned loudly. 

To say that his ego was sharpened by her desire for him would have been a laughable understatement. He was adoring every second of control she allowed him, was loving being able to bring her this erotic torment. He looked up at her in mock question, his lips playing just above hers. "You don't want me to be gentle?" 

She tried to capture his lips, but he moved out of range. "Noooo," she moaned. "Want more." If she hadn't been asking for something so decidedly adult, she would have sounded childlike in her pleading. 

He pressed his lips to hers in a deep, sudden, commanding kiss, before pulling back. Nikita's head tried to follow. "Then, I'll just have to give you more, won't I?" He kissed her possessively again. 

She groaned beneath him, through the kiss, and he felt her nipples pressing into his hands. He rubbed his thumbs more firmly over the material above them, while she moaned loudly -- her kiss becoming even more needy. 

He licked at her lips, as he pulled back, smiling a self-satisfied smile at her. He nipped at them once more before moving to run wet kisses down her bared throat -- every one eliciting a moan of desire from her. 

His hands moved to her back and held her up to him, pressing her tightened nipples against him, through their clothing. He found another tender spot on her neck and took it in his teeth, rubbing it between them, as his tongue stroked along it. "Michael," she cried, her need almost unbearable. If he took her right now, it wouldn't be too soon. 

Michael, though, had no intention of ending her torture just yet. It had been months since he had last been with her -- and even then they had been partially performing for the cameras. . . . Their only time before then, too, had been marred by his pressing fears for her safety. 

Now, however, they were alone; any cameras which may be watching he was unaware of; and he had no immediate fears about her cancellation. Furthermore -- for the first time -- there were no major, tormenting lies between them, waiting to cause her pain. . . . He was hers alone -- and he could love her in just the way that would please them both best. 

************ 

He ran his teeth further down her to sink them lightly into the delicate flesh between her neck and shoulder. She gasped and then began groaning, as he marked her -- loving the fact that he was claiming her in so elemental a fashion. 

She was panting. "More." He bit her harder, to her short scream. "Oh God, yes," she moaned. 

He stroked around in front of her again to pull down the lace of her bra, revealing her nipples to his roving hands. She let out short little groans, while his thumbs played with them roughly -- moaning as he awoke them even further -- into almost painful life. 

She was panting by the time he finally moved further down her -- having already left his marks on her neck. He ran the tip of his tongue down her breastbone and up one of her small breasts -- stretched even more taut because of her current position. He played with it very lightly -- the end of his tongue wetting it in soft flicks. It was already so aroused from his hand's work, however, that she was panting at the sensation, barely able to withstand it. 

He finally stopped his gentle teasing to run his teeth up and down along the hardened little bud, his tongue still wetting its tip. Her head was back, little groans escaping her. "Mi-chael, please," she begged, unable to stand this torment any more. 

He captured the nipple in his teeth then, giving her exactly the pressure she needed. Her groans had turned into screams, as her chest heaved at him -- her breathing ragged. He bit her harder, and she moaned out a loud scream of need. Her hands knotted themselves in her bonds, needing to hold on to something, as her fierce desire grew. "God . . . yes," she managed breathily. 

He bit her again. "Uhhh," she moaned, as his mouth began suckling her roughly. His thumb was rubbing over the other bud. 

She was bucking against him unconsciously, uncontrollably. He bit and licked goodbye to the nipple he had been tormenting before moving on to its twin; she whimpered at his temporary loss. 

He took this new plaything in his teeth, beginning to give it the same treatment the first had undergone. His thumb now replaced the lace of her bra over the neglected bud and rubbed it there with just enough pressure to make her ache with need. 

She was crying now, so overcome with desire she could barely withstand it. "More," she moaned, and Michael bit her in just the way she had dreamed, soothing her with his tongue a second later. "Yes," she whimpered. 

He moved the lace back over the nipple here, too, and began to lick her strongly through the thin material. She let out a little gasping groan, and he closed his teeth over both the lace and the aching bud. 

"Mi-chael," she moaned out. Her whole body was trying to rub against his. She had never been more aroused. 

He suckled on her through the thin lace for a minute longer, occasionally scraping over her with his teeth. She was still whimpering. Finally, he pinched one bud with his hand and ran his teeth up over the other -- giving it a final lick -- before he moved the material off of both of them again and started to move down her with his tongue. He traced light lines down her belly to her abdomen and back up again, while she whimpered with need. 

"Michael," she begged. 

He kissed at her belly button, running his tongue into it for a minute, exploring its depths. He then sucked on it, as she was trembling under him. 

He moved her legs further apart, as he sat up to look at her. When her eyes locked with his, he ran his hands to the bottom of his shirt and -- when he was certain that she was watching his every move -- began slowly pulling it over his head. 

He dropped the garment on the floor nearby and sat there, letting her take in the lines of his chest; her breathing became more ragged, slight groans escaping her. She unconsciously licked her lips, and he smiled down at her, his hands moving finally to the button on his pants. 

Her eyes grew wide, watching the entire process with wonder. He slowly undid his pants and began to pull down the zipper. Her gaze was fixed on every inch of his progress. He tried not to groan at the relief of the pressure from this sensitive area -- and, even more -- from the look of joy in her eyes, when he finally pulled the garment down and away, standing on the mattress momentarily to remove the last of his clothes -- discarding them beside the makeshift bed. 

He looked down at her from above. Her eyes were focused nowhere near his own, however; they were fixed almost unblinkingly on his throbbing arousal. Her mouth was open, her eyes wide. 

Lying stretched out beneath him, happily and trustingly ready to submit to any suggestion he might give, she was quite a beautiful and dangerously arousing sight. He licked his lips, loving every second of this. "Do you like what you see?" he asked in a low voice -- adoring the look of need in her eyes. 

She nodded slightly, entirely incapable of speech -- her eyes focused lovingly on the slight bobbing of his need, as his heart's blood coursed in it. It bobbed more determinedly with her answer. "Good," he said simply. 

He knelt back before her and unclasped the front of her bra, removing the offending garment from her as much as it was possible to, with her arms incapacitated. He kissed her lightly, before moving back out of her reach, his hands running down the sides of her body to come to rest on her underwear. 

He began pulling down one side of it, as he lifted her leg up, bending her knee. The stretchy material moved with his hand, allowing him to run it down her leg; he moved her limb further up her body, finally slipping that side of this last tormenting barrier between them off her foot. He returned her leg to the bed and lifted the material past the entrance to her core, then -- more easily -- moved it down and off of her other leg --to be discarded with the other clothes beside the bed. 

He looked down at her now -- stretched beneath him, her eyes large and loving, her body warm and waiting to be loved. He wished -- at times -- that he didn't dream of her submission, that he didn't love that she would happily give herself up to him in passion. He wanted to be able to be more gentle with her -- to treat her as the partner to his soul, instead of as the mate he needed to soothe his primal desires. . . . He knew, however, that she was all of these things to him -- and that simply wishing for tenderness to use with her wouldn't make it real. 

Right now, too, he needed her -- fiercely. He wanted her to know all of the ravenous need that flowed through him when he looked at her -- needed her to know that they alone would always be each other's true mates. His hands were running up and down her -- slightly parted -- inner thighs. A feral smile was spreading across his lips -- his need to possess her overtaking him. 

He bent his head down to kiss along her abdomen, keeping eye contact with her; he wanted her to understand the truth of his need. He kissed further down -- just above her heated depths, moving in toward her tender bud. Just before he reached it, however, he gave her a quiet command: "If you look away for even a second, I'll stop." 

Nikita's already-imperilled breathing became almost dangerously thin. Her eyes were wide, her mouth open. She was in such need for him she felt as though she were aching with it. That he wanted her to watch him please her was almost unbearable; the passion -- the command and submission of it, on both their parts, was almost more than she could stand. She was trembling slightly. "Mi-chael," she whimpered, her voice thin. 

He waited until she had acknowledged his order by nodding her head shakily. He smiled at her and then lowered his head -- his tongue beginning to lick up over her bud. 

She groaned out at the sensation -- her hips rising toward him, but she followed his command. He held her hips and helped her move them, as he closed his mouth over her tender flesh, suckling her -- running the tip of his tongue along this most delicate area. 

She was moaning now, her body taut -- her hips thrusting toward him, as he suckled her more strongly. Their eyes stayed locked together, increasing both of their desires -- making the need almost unbearable. He was sucking on her hard now, his tongue tormenting her. His eyes held a carnal heat for her -- letting her know exactly how much he wanted her -- telling her that her beautiful parts were his alone to enjoy and taste. 

Her hips were bucking unconsciously against his mouth now, begging for more. It was a sight so erotic she could barely stand to watch. Michael held her from behind, clasping her firmly to his demanding mouth, every stroke of his tongue sending waves of desire and need into her. His eyes were those of a lion who was enjoying his prey. . . . No one could have stopped him from feasting on her treasures. Just as he saw, too, that she understood this, his teeth grazed over her tender flesh, before he suckled her harder. 

Her hips bucked against him wildly, as her orgasm began. But he had no intention of letting her go just yet. His hand moved up her thigh with intent -- pressing two fingers slowly -- deep inside her. 

She screamed. And, when he saw in her eyes that she could barely withstand any more arousal, he added a third. 

Her entire lower body had taken on a life of its own; she couldn't control it any more. It flailed wildly against him, bucking against his firmly-suckling mouth, bearing down on the thrusting, deeply probing fingers of his hand. She was insane with the need he gave her. "Harder --more," she begged in gasps, still coming -- her eyes filled with tears of desire. 

He obliged her, suckling more roughly at her delicate, perilously-aroused bud, his fingers stroking almost brutally inside her -- running down a slick, sensitive wall and hitting a tender, needy spot repeatedly --hard. "Michael," she barely managed to breathe. Watching the -- to her mind -- world's most beautiful man intent solely on pleasing her -- demented with the need to, applying all of his formidable skills to her tender flesh, made every stroke, every lick, every hard suck, triply arousing. She was giving out panting, gasping groans. 

He growled against her flesh. Seeing her willing submission -- her utter trust, her need for him alone was destroying any sense of sanity he had ever possessed. He wanted to watch her come again -- building on the wonderful, internal tremors he had already given her, wanted to feel her spasm around his fingers -- wanted to feel her bud quiver against his tongue. His arousal throbbed and ached against the sheets -- demanding that he give it its rightful turn to please her, . . . but he was going to make it wait. This was just too God-damned arousing. 

His pace on her trebled. She felt his mouth in a sharp spiral of warmth which spread straight into her, meeting and building even further on the incredible sensation of every hard stroke of his thrusting, searching fingers. She let out a strangled scream, and everything intensified in a blinding moment of light, while a noise she knew was hers echoed throughout the apartment -- into the night. 

Her depths clasped desperately at his fingers, bringing them even further inside her; her hips bucked against his mouth, giving her the slight, pleasurable sting of his teeth. She ground herself against both points of pleasure while a gasping, choking groan emitted from her --the pleasure so sharp it was almost unreal. 

She wasn't coming down anytime soon -- wasn't even going to start to. Michael, however, had no intention of waiting any more. He had already made her his. . . . He was now determined to claim her. 

He removed his hand by running it down one shuddering wall, then placed the fingers in his mouth to enjoy her taste. Not content with that small sample, though -- her taste intoxicating him, he bent his head further to run his tongue deep inside her -- loving the feel of her trembling around it. 

After a few seconds of indulging himself at her core, he looked back up at her. She was still shaking slightly; she had closed her eyes, utterly lost to the pleasure he had given her. 

She was a devastatingly beautiful sight in her ecstasy -- the agonizing kind of ecstasy that he was brutally content to have given her. . . . Now, though, he was going to join her. 

He licked his lips, still tasting in aroused joy the ambrosia that came only from her. He growled slightly. "Watch me," he commanded again, taking hold of her hips. 

She obeyed, watching agog -- still shaking with pleasure -- while he tilted her hips toward himself and entered just the tip of his arousal into her. "Uhhhh," she moaned, trying to hold her hips further up to him. 

He moaned a little himself, dearly loving the feeling of reunion he gained from joining with her. He pushed himself a bit further into her and watched her face, as she saw another inch of his huge arousal disappear inside herself. 

She let out a strangled groan. The combination of the feeling of him inside her -- throbbing in her, stretching her aroused flesh -- and the sight of their union was threatening to make her insane. She let out a groan of gurgling need -- incapable, even, of making coherent sounds. 

He swelled even further at the sight of the need and towering desire which flowed behind her eyes. She groaned more loudly, and he pushed himself further inside her, becoming desperate to be one with her -- hoping he could keep himself from hurting her with the shattering intensity of his need. 

She tried to mouth "yes" -- not even coming close, but he understood. He pushed yet another inch of himself into her and then -- too addicted to the feeling to stop -- another -- then another. 

Nikita was arching in a bow beneath him, letting out screams so incoherent they were barely human. He made himself hold still for a second or two, knowing she was beyond the ability to ask for it herself. Her eyes were still locked to his in near-ecstatic astonishment. 

It was a look which made his need for her nearly cataclysmic. When her breathing was at least in recognizable little gasps again, therefore, he continued -- pushing yet another thickened inch into her bewitching, tight core. 

She didn't have a mind capable of thought anymore. All she could do was feel. She sensed that the man she loved far more than life was now deep within her, felt in her blood the sight of their almost-completed union -- of his muscles so taut with an attempt at control he was close to hurting himself. Her heart was beating so loudly it seemed to be all she could hear, as it kept perfect time with the beat of his intense arousal within her. 

His hands were leaving marks on her soft curves, as he held her up to himself. He was feeling utterly feral in his need to possess her -- to make her completely his own. 

It was when he saw the look of unbearable need and love in her eyes, however, that a growl issued from him; he sank himself the rest of the way into her -- to her roaring, overwhelmed scream. He lay her hips back on the bed, as he leaned forward to hold himself up on his hands above her, eyes closed. . . . Dear God -- this was what life was about. This was why he had been born. 

She held him like no other woman ever could. She completed him in every way possible. 

************ His need for her was insane, almost painful. He wanted to give himself to her like a lion -- dominating his mate; he wanted to hear her scream his name -- to groan it -- to whimper it. . . . When it was over, he wanted her to be so beyond thought that it was almost impossible to recognize that she was human. 

He would have to wait for a final release for her, however; she was so close to another one now, that he would need to give this one to her and then begin again. His thoughts grew more feral. . . God, he loved how easily he could make her come; her pleasure aroused him to an absolutely dangerous degree. 

He looked at her face intensely -- watched her shallow breathing. Just entering her had hovered her so close on the edge, he could see her entire body trembling there, as her desire ran through it in aching shudders. 

He gave her the final help she needed in her erotic combustion by kissing her cheek and then lowering his head to her breast -- his hands on her back. He suckled sharply then on the over-stimulated bud -- while giving her a hard, deep, sharp stroke. 

She screamed out in aching fulfillment, feeling his arms around her --being wonderfully possessed. Her hips bucked against his, and she felt his slow rhythm begin -- the head of his thickened shaft starting to move deep in her -- against the furthest wall of her core. 

She was grinding against him -- trembling all over and moaning from yet another fulfillment, her inner walls rippling yet again around his arousal. The fact that his rhythm was continuing -- was stroking through her trembling depths -- made her thundering pleasure almost unbearable. 

"Mmm," he murmured. He loved the way she felt when she came around him -- loved even more stroking her through it. He kept his arms around her, licking repeatedly over her nipple. He loved the possession of this act -- loved -- to an absolutely feral degree -- how much desire and fulfillment he could give her. 

He wasn't allowing her to come down completely. As soon as the highest crest of her orgasm hit, he began suckling her breast, while stroking more strongly deep within her -- long thrusts which moved lovingly down one aching, wet -- still trembling -- wall and then deep within her core. 

She met his movements, while her incoherent noises continued. They had become one animal now -- moving with grace, moving in joy -- each part in sync with the other. 

Her head was back, as she moaned. He felt huge within her -- was stretching her depths; she was completely devoted to every deep thrust he gave her. . . . Her life belonged to him utterly, at this moment. 

The connection and intimacy of their lives flowed between them, binding them together. It ran through them both in heated cords of light -- wrapping them into one connected being. 

It only built on her desire for him. She began thrusting at him more quickly, needing him to take her -- desperate for his feral command. He was too controlled. She was insane and mindless with need; he was simply quiet and intense. . . . She wanted him to be insane, as well. 

During one of his journeys within her, she clasped her depths around him particularly tightly. He groaned and bit her nipple before raising his head. "Don't play with me, 'Kita," he warned her. 

She smiled at him and repeated the action on the next thrust, her eyes heated and feral. 

He took hold of her hips and began thrusting more deeply. "This is a game you can't win." 

Her smile grew wider, her lips parting momentarily. "Don't want to," she mouthed, still incapable of speech. She clasped at him strongly again. 

He growled and gave her a harder thrust, to her pleased smile and slight laugh -- her head back for a second. His face was near hers -- his hot breath burning over her skin. "You want to play rough?" 

She smiled dangerously at him and bit lightly at his lips, her inner clasp on him this time almost painful. 

He growled again and leaned over to her ear, his hands at her back. "You asked for it," he whispered. She laughed throatily in response. 

He began stroking into her much more roughly, to her pleased groans. "You like that?" he whispered. 

"Mmmm," she managed before nibbling at his earlobe. He growled once more and started to bite at the tender spots on her neck, including the ones he had earlier bruised. He held her from behind, as he thrust into her deeply, grinding himself up into her with each stroke. 

She laughed happily and let her head fall back, completely open to his desires. His strokes got rougher, as he growled at her response. She whimpered slightly beneath him, and he increased the pace -- hitting her deep and hard with each thrust. His hands were sinking into her flesh from behind. 

"Dee-per," he heard her moan softly. She loved it when he was wild. 

He growled once more, as one hand traveled up her back. He was riding her fast and deep, now watching her face. He was smiling. 

She looked up at him, her eyes alight. She smiled a challenge. 

He licked his lips and groaned out another growl. He bit at her jaw. "You want me rough?" She gave a huge smile in return. 

His other hand traveled up her back -- joining the first in holding onto her shoulders, pulling himself into her in hard, deep thrusts. "Then take it rough," he demanded. 

He rode her faster, as she moaned, head back. He was intent on her complete domination now -- wanted nothing less than her total submission in her climax. 

His nipples scraped against hers, as he stroked over her. He growled, increasing the pace again, at the sensation. "You want more?" 

"Yes," she mouthed, her lips open, head still back. She was letting out little, inhuman sounds, a smile on her face. He felt so damn good, every stroke pummeling deep into her -- controlling her depths in a wonderfully . . . almost brutally erotic way -- hitting her most sensitive spots in just the way she needed him most. "More," she mouthed. 

His growl got louder, as he beat into her even more brutally. Had he had any sense of sanity left, he would have been concerned about hurting her, but -- right now -- he really didn't give a damn. 

That was, of course, alright, however, because pain was the last thing on her mind. Her legs were wrapped tightly around him, her depths even tighter. Every stroke seemed to travel throughout her entire body -- the sweet length of his shaft -- its large, beautiful head making her feel utterly whole and complete. 

He was insane now. He needed her pleasure like a drug, wanted -- almost brutally -- to please her. He kept his hands on her shoulders and rode her fast and hard, hitting her core with an almost cruel force. 

The head of his shaft stormed its way through her -- demanding supplication. She could only let out little short screams with every wonderful, rough strike it gave her desperate core. Her legs wrapped even more tightly around him -- her body tense. 

"Yes," he growled, seeing that her next release was close. He became absolutely unhinged in his need to please her. He moved his hands down to her chest, half holding onto her back, while his thumbs rubbed roughly over her nipples. His strokes inside her got harder still. 

Every muscle she had was taut. She was beyond even making sounds -- was utterly braced for the coming cataclysm. 

He found her most sensitive spot and hit it roughly five times -- each time more brutal than the last. As the last stroke hit her deep, he twisted the nipples he had been stroking, as well, a second before he dropped his head to bite at the bruised, sensitive spot at the crook of her neck. 

She gasped out something like a few short screams, as her body bucked against him uncontrollably. An aching warmth which vibrated straight from her core filled her, made her shudder throughout with devastating --almost painful -- fulfillment. 

"Yes," he growled once more, loving the feeling of her pleasure. . . . But it wasn't enough. 

He didn't slow his pace at all. In fact, he took hold of her hips and began slamming into her repeatedly with brutalizing force, as he dropped his head to bite at a ridiculously overstimulated bud. 

She made a choking noise, as her body jerked against him. He had taken an already-shattering orgasm and made it even more unbelievably intense. Her depths were holding onto him -- were rippling around him with incredible, shuddering force. 

He groaned loudly; she felt too damn good. He was so close to coming. He could feel it throughout the length of his arousal; the head of it, especially, seemed to be alight with life and need -- was almost aching with sensitivity. . . . But he still wasn't giving up yet. 

He held onto her back and rode her hard and deep -- his thrusts never leaving the most intimate part of her core. He then moved further up --further into -- her body, until he was unbelievably deep and now face-to-face with her. He took hold of her thrashing head and silently demanded that she look at him. 

She did -- even as she was being overwhelmed by one release coming on top of another -- even as her depths were rippling tightly around him; she was crying -- overwhelmed. His eyes looked at her in absolute, unshakable devotion. His love -- his need for her was almost unbearable; it seemed to reach out to her -- to grab her and hold her desperately to him -- to bind them tightly together as one. 

With an absolutely Herculean feat of will, she managed to gasp out, "Michael . . . I love you," just as the head of his shaft hit her core roughly in the most indescribably deep and perfect way. 

He closed his eyes. One hand reached up to rip hers from her bonds, as his eyes connected with hers for one final second. Then, his mouth lowered passionately on hers, and they were both lost to the storm. 

They held each other in a deep, all-embracing kiss -- a kiss which seemed to seal their souls together as one, while their bodies ground against each other uncontrollably. Nikita's inner walls tightened indescribably around Michael, while his much-tortured shaft was finally given its release -- jerking in her -- dancing uncontrollably within her tight, throbbing walls, desperately forcing its warmth out to be welcomed deep within her, spreading its heated comfort. 

They were crying, as they kissed -- were biting slightly at one another's lips; neither had ever felt so complete before -- so utterly united, so thoroughly whole. It was as though they had finally been tightly bound to one another. . . . And it was something which no one could ever untie again. 

It was quite some time later before they started to come down once more. Even as they did, though, they stayed utterly entwined -- kissing each other's faces softly from time to time, unable -- unwilling, even as sleep finally came to take them, to break from the soul-completing embrace of their other half. They were in paradise, after all, . . . and it wasn't a place they ever wanted to escape. 

************** 

Michael awoke later that day -- sometime in the early afternoon -- to find himself completely entwined with Nikita. . . . It was like waking up in a fantasy. He sighed happily and held her closer, as she slept. 

He had never felt more whole than he did right now; all of the pain --all of the loss of the last few weeks had disappeared, was no longer even a viable memory. . . . Everything seemed bright. 

He had Nikita. . . . He had Nikita. That one thought kept circling itself around in his mind. There was nothing more perfect he could ever hope for in this life. No matter how temporary this moment might be, she still loved him; she still cared. He pulled her closer. His arms were around -- he was still inside the most perfect woman -- the most perfect soul ever created. . . . Nothing could be more beautiful than this. 

He kissed her temple and inhaled the wonderful scent of her hair, and she stirred slightly in her sleep. He kissed her lightly once again, to encourage her back into her peaceful slumber. 

She made a small, almost childlike, noise of contentment and drifted back into her dreams, and he held her closer again. He had dreamed of this so often -- had so frequently fantasized about just being able to hold her close . . . about the joy of making love to her and then -- for once -- feeling safe enough to just sleep, with the woman he loved in his arms. 

He thought about these last words. Yes, . . . dear God, yes . . . he did love her -- more than life, more than sanity, more than safety, more than hope. . . . Nikita was all of these things to him, after all; absolutely none of them could exist without her. He held her closer still and kissed lightly down her cheek -- not wanting to wake her -- but loving every second of his proximity to her. . . . He did wish, of course, that this was permanent -- that this little fantasy world they had created this morning was possible forever; he wanted a lifetime of waking with her in his arms -- wanted to open his eyes every day to find her soft hair covering his face -- wanted to make love with her in every conceivable fashion, to use every skill he had ever had or acquired to please her. 

He smiled. And that really was, he knew, all he was capable of doing with her sexually -- making love. No matter how rough, no matter what games they might play, no matter how overwhelming their need, it was all love; he had no desires for her without that one, tantamount emotion. . . . And he had so many desires for her. 

He sighed, pondering his needs more deeply; he wished, once again, that they were normal people -- that they could marry and have children, that their problems were the mundane ones of everyday life. He kissed her hair, holding her possessively. He shouldn't have to worry that she would be killed or raped in the normal course of their day -- shouldn't have to worry every day that their masters would steal her beautiful . . . invaluable soul. . . . No. They should be worrying about what to name their children -- about whether they were spoiling them . . . not -- not ever -- about the things they always had to. 

He sighed once more, running his hand down her hair, trailing it over her neck. He watched its progression until it fell upon one of the large marks he had given her in his passion this morning. He touched it softly. While some feral part of him was happy to have so claimed her as his own, the softer parts of his soul began to worry. He continued stroking it, while he looked up over their heads to the completely ruined dress he had nailed to the floor this morning -- a silent testament to his ravaging desire. 

"What are you worrying about?" she asked, catching him a little off-guard. She had woken awhile ago but had been enjoying the feeling of his touch, had been adoring just being held by him -- knowing that he was examining her in love. Now, however, she felt the change in his emotions -- the darker shading they had taken on, and she worried about his thoughts. 

He looked down at her, still lightly stroking her neck. "Did I hurt you?" 

She knew exactly what he was talking about, even if she also knew it wasn't true; she looked at him sympathetically -- but with a very slight trace of exasperation. "Not even vaguely." 

He simply looked at her. He stroked a nail very lightly over the bruise on her neck and then, leaning back a bit, ran his hand gently over a slightly over-used nipple. 

She flinched a little, although she tried to hide it. She took his hand and held it away, holding it in her own, not making eye contact. 

"'Not even vaguely'?" he repeated softly. 

She looked back at him. "Would you have minded if I'd left a few similar marks on you?" she pointed out. 

"You didn't," he stated quietly. 

"So, I never can?" She fixed him in a gentle stare, but he looked away. She let go of his hand and took hold of his chin, turning his face up -- forcing him to look at her. "Michael, you're not being realistic." She shrugged, letting go of his face. "That's just people -- how they work." 

He raised an eyebrow at her slightly and then looked up above them at the ruins of her dress. 

Her eyes followed his. "I am going to need some new clothes," she murmured ironically, still looking at it. 

He focused on her intently, silently forcing her to be serious. 

She returned his stare. "What? You think I didn't want that -- that you forced it on me?" She saw, to her horror, that he seemed to; she shook her head. "Michael, you gave me what I wanted -- what we both needed." He looked away, not believing. "If you're disgusted with yourself, then you need to be disgusted with me, as well." His focus returned to her, a little angry. She shook her head again. "It wasn't just you, if you remember." 

He looked at her seriously, stroking her face. "You should be treated more gently." 

"Even if I don't want to be?" She was growing frustrated. "I'm not some little virgin schoolgirl being touched for the first time," she pointed out. "For God's sake, give me the credit of being able to understand my own desires!" 

He stroked her face, seeming upset. "I know you do." He tried to calm her then looked down at her lips. "I just . . ." He trailed off. 

Her anger dissipated at the torment of his look; she stroked his face softly again. "I know." She kissed him lightly. "I know you don't want to hurt me." She sighed, speaking a little more softly. "I know that you love me." He met her eyes, fully reflecting the truth of her statement; she still didn't expect him to say it. "But neither of us are exactly innocents, Michael. Please," she shook her head slightly, "don't expect me to pretend." 

He shook his head as well, drawing her closer to him -- holding her to him. "I don't. I just . . ." He shook his head again, rubbing his cheek against her soft hair. "I don't want you to think it's just physical . . . that I don't . . . care." 

"Ssh," she whispered, stroking his back. "I know. . . . I know." 

He wanted, so desperately, at that moment to tell her that he loved her, . . . but he couldn't bring himself to say the words. He had hurt her so often, had used her so much. . . . He was still scarred, too, by having had to say the words to targets before -- terrible orders, which had emptied those sacred words of their meaning. 

The only person, in fact, that he had ever said the words to in all honesty and cognizance was Simone, . . . and he had -- in the end -- been responsible for her death. He was almost afraid that, from his lips, that simple, deep admission would become a death sentence for the woman in his arms -- would do her terrible, untold harm. 

Nikita understood all of this, however. As much -- as terribly much -- as she wanted to hear him honestly tell her that he loved her -- to just hear him admit it -- she did know it was true, . . . and she was more than aware of his reasons for not giving her that simple statement of the truth of his heart. 

They held each other for quite some time, understanding the depth of emotion in one another -- loving that they did have this one moment, if possibly nothing else. Moments like this, after all, would always be holy. 

It was Nikita who finally broke the silence, sighing sadly -- but needing to know. "Do you need to go in?" 

He tried not to shudder against her, but she felt it anyway and held him closer. "No. They haven't called me." 

"Good," she whispered, kissing him on the cheek. 

He looked back at her finally, deciding to start moving the day he had every intention of spending alone with his beloved along a bit. "Would you like some breakfast?" He looked up at the sunlight streaming into his new home. "Or lunch?" 

She smiled, glad to see a bit of his humor returning. "Eventually," she nodded. 

He looked back at her, a slight, subtle smile curving his lips. "What do you have in mind?" 

She looked down and then back up to his eyes. "How much warm water does your shower have?" 

He smiled a bit more broadly, pondering it; considering his hygiene habits over the last several days he had been here, however, it was a little hard to remember. "Enough, I think." He stroked her face with the backs of his fingers. God, he loved her -- loved that they finally had this opportunity. 

"Good," she smiled back. She moved away a little, and he finally withdrew himself from her depths -- to their mutual sigh. "I'll be in the shower, then." Her eyes made it blatantly obvious that she did not expect to be alone. 

He continued smiling, watching her walk -- a little stiltedly -- toward the bathroom. He enjoyed the view too much to follow too quickly. 

Once he heard the water running, though, he stood up and went after her. . . . Between them, they were definitely giving him some far more pleasant memories of his new apartment. 

On entering the bathroom, he was greeted with the beautiful and heart-grabbing sight of Nikita beneath the head of his shower, her face tilted up to the water, her hands smoothing back her long, wet hair. Her beautiful, small breasts were upturned toward the spray, her nipples erect -- her whole body outlined and defined in her movements. 

He took in a deep breath, as he felt his blood moving once more, his arousal growing again. His desire for her was more gentle this time, however; he wanted to love her softly -- to make up for any pain he might have given her this morning. 

She had heard him come in, but hadn't stopped to look at him -- enjoying the feeling of his eyes washing over her -- taking her in possessively. She felt him now, too, stepping into the shower behind her. He closed the curtain and then pulled her back toward him, softly rubbing his growing arousal against her wet skin -- to her slight, responding moan. 

He moved her hair away from her neck and gently sucked in an unbruised bit of tender flesh near the crook, suckling it -- running his teeth over it lightly. His hands trailed around her to lie across her stomach -- stroking it softly. One hand moved up to cup a breast, very gently playing with its nipple with his thumb. 

She moaned and leaned back against him, holding his mouth to her -- running one hand back to pull him toward her from behind, kneading the soft curves. She loved the feel of him stretched along her -- loved his mouth on her -- the gentle, well-timed sting of his teeth. She was incredibly aroused by the need in him -- adored, most of all, knowing that he wanted to be with her here -- that this was his fantasy, as well. 

They stood like that for some time, hands running softly over one another -- Michael taking his time to lick soft, arousing lines along the cords of her neck, then nibbling softly back down them. Nikita moaned, the dual pleasures of Michael and the warm water making her need for him grow further. 

After some minutes, she moved away a little -- moaning slightly, as she was forced to lose the wonderful sensation of him against her. She turned and looked at him; the water had been hitting him a little, but he was -- so far -- still relatively dry. 

She smiled a seductive little smile at him. "This is a shower, Michael." She started to turn them around -- moving him back under its warm spray. "Let's not waste it." 

His eyes met hers passionately, as he came to rest under the shower's head. He tilted his head back to let the water run down his hair and over his body, and she simply watched for a few seconds in appreciation of his beauty. Few men would ever come close. Not wanting to lose this opportunity, however, she stepped in toward him, her hands going to the back of his shoulders to hold him to her, her mouth rising up to place warm, wet kisses along the exposed line of his throat. She loved licking at the water that ran over his wonderful -- slightly bristled -- skin, lapping it into her mouth. 

He groaned and held her to him. She drew him more tightly against her -- his now very hardened arousal throbbing between them -- and suckled briefly on his Adam's apple before running her tongue up to taste the water coming off the underside of his throat. 

His groans continued. She moved her way up him, kissing up his chin and licking at the small hairs there and on his cheeks -- moving toward his mouth. Her hand guided his head back down to hers, as she took his lips in a deep, soft, seductive kiss. 

He held her to him, as well, and joined in the kiss fully -- doing his best to seduce her with it. His tongue played with her, aroused her, made her want more of him. She moaned softly and pulled him even more deeply into it, making it possessive -- both of them trying to taste the whole of each other's soul in the soft depths there. They were both moaning. 

The kiss continued for several minutes, while their hands roamed. Nikita ran her hands down his strong back, tracing and massaging the lines of it, until her fingers came to rest on the soft curves below. She stroked them very gently -- just running her nails over his sensitive skin, making his need for her jump against her. 

He, too, traced his hands along her. They found their way down the muscles of her back, one of them tracing over a hip and then coming up to once again cup a beautiful, aroused breast -- his thumb stroking lightly over the tip. 

Their kiss, meanwhile, became the simple play of tongues against each other. They ran them over lips, along teeth -- along one another's gently. It wasn't even a kiss anymore, really -- their lips no longer meeting; their tongues were handling all of their tender explorations. 

They stayed like that for several more minutes, simply loving the opportunity they had created -- loving that they had the freedom to touch each other . . . the freedom to be alone and, at least -- to their knowledge, unobserved. 

They began nipping at each other's lips with their own and then lightly with their teeth -- their tongues coming out to smooth along the roughly-used areas seconds later. Their hands continued to roam. One of hers ran down over his hip, coming between them to move along his rigid shaft, then cupping the sac below it, caressing. One of his, as well, had stroked down to her thigh and was running tempting little lines along it, making her press against his need. 

It was Nikita who finally decided to take their loveplay in a slightly different direction. As much as she was enjoying this -- was loving every second -- she wanted a chance to really touch Michael -- to explore him. They had had so few opportunities to be close and -- both of those times -- she had had little chance to really familiarize herself with him in the way she would have liked to. . . . She wasn't letting this time slip by without it. 

************ 

She leaned back from the kiss and looked at him, a small smile on her face. "This is a shower, right, Michael?" Her smile became more broad. "Doesn't that mean you should get clean?" 

His eyes watched her with love and desire, as she picked up the soap. She lathered her hands well with it, till they were white with foam. She kissed him lightly and then kissed along his jaw, while her hands began to caress his neck, running strong lines down the back. 

He leaned his head back to groan, and she kissed down his throat before lathering there, as well. She leaned his head forward, after that, the back of his neck in the spray, to wash off the soap, then tilted it backward to repeat the process. The water washed the foam down his lovely body, and she moaned appreciatively. "I could get used to this," she thought. 

She kissed down his throat once more and then looked back up at him with a smile, as she reached for the soap again. He looked down at her with deep desire -- loving being the object of his beautiful lover's fantasy. 

Once her hands were lathered once again, she took one of his nipples into her mouth and suckled him, while she started to smooth the soap into his shoulders and arms. She continued suckling there, as he held her to him, moaning -- his arousal throbbing against her. 

She stayed that way until her hands were free of lather once more, the rest of his chest now lovingly covered with the foam. She pushed him back into the spray again and ran her hands over his firm skin, while she cleaned off her work; the soap, once again, washed lovingly down his body. 

God, he loved this. It felt so perfect, so . . . right to be touched by her. The fact that she was obviously enjoying her work -- was enjoying caressing every inch of his already-aroused skin into intensely erotic need made his arousal throb even more strongly for her. 

She began her sensual process once more -- this time suckling on the joint of his neck and shoulder, while lathering the long length of his arms. Once done, she lifted them above his head -- holding them there, as her other hand washed the soap off -- enjoying, yet again, watching it run down his gorgeous body. 

His current position reversed the one they had taken on in their passion early this morning; his eyes glowed at her meaningfully. She simply smiled in return. 

She loved that her touch aroused him. She continued this lovely torment, therefore, by lowering herself to her knees in front of him. 

Seeing her in this position, however, made his breathing imperilled; he could barely stand the passionate submission of it. His eyes glowed like fire at her, his arousal throbbing. 

She loved the look in his eyes. She ran her tongue along the hard length of him to reward his desires, then trailed it over the tightened sac beneath, as her hand followed along after to caress the lather down over these lovely, aroused features. "Yes," he moaned. 

She moved next to run her tongue around his unlathered tip, tormenting him softly; he tilted his head back, breathing heavily, his desires pushed even further -- his need torturous. A moan rose in his chest. 

She smiled while suckling the head. She loved the taste of him -- loved pleasing him. 

Her hands went back to the soap and lathered up and down the long, strong lengths of his legs. Every time she needed to move lower, too, she would touch him only with the very tip of her tongue, before coming back each time to capture the head firmly in her mouth again. Once done with his legs, as well, her hand began caressing his sac, the slippery surface of the soap making the efforts even more arousing for him. 

Michael was mindless. He had his hands in her hair, his head back, as he moaned constantly. Her willingness -- her desire to please him was spurring his own desires to a dangerous level. 

He needed her so badly he was beginning to ache with it. His arousal bobbed at her mouth. 

After several minutes of this, she let go of his shaft, to his gasp, and pushed him back slightly by the hips, using the water to wash off her work. He moaned at the change of erotic sensations. 

Once he was clean, she ran her tongue along the underside of his shaft, tracing the vein along it. She gave the head one last -- hard --suck before releasing him, to his rumbling groan. 

She loved how open his body was to her. She turned him around by the hips and took up the soap once more. 

She leaned him forward, his hands resting against the wall of the shower; she then leaned in to bite lightly at each of his soft curves. She heard his gasping groan and sensed -- rather than saw -- his arousal throb in response. Her tongue came out to soothe the ache on his tender flesh then, and he moaned in spellbound response. 

She stood up and began lathering once more, moving the, now-liquid, soap up the strong lines of his back, massaging him, as she rubbed it in. He threw back his head and moaned loudly once more, her hands both soothing and arousing. 

She came up to caress his shoulders -- tired, as always, from too many missions -- from too much strain. He wanted to weep with her gentleness, with her precise knowledge of his needs. He had never felt such joy at being open to another soul -- such pleasure in being touched. 

Nikita finished her work by washing off the last of the soap and then leaned forward to embrace him softly, her hands encircling him. She stroked over the lines of his chest, rubbing a nipple lightly with her thumbnail before moving one hand down further to rub along him in long, full strokes -- her hand encircling his need. 

He moaned at the feel of her. "'Ki-ta," he groaned. Her thumb rubbed over the tip of his shaft as she kissed his shoulder. 

He moaned again and stood up, putting his hands over hers -- both soothed and in need from the feel of her loving touch on him. He had never felt so truly wanted -- so completely desired. He was no longer just some object to be given at Section's will; he was whole, human, and beloved by a woman whom he would never -- in any lifetime -- fully deserve. 

He took her hands from him gently and turned back to her. She, however, shook her head, kissing him softly and lovingly. "You're not done yet, Michael." She kissed him once more and then turned him back around. She encircled him in her arms again, her hands on his chest, and kissed the side of his face. "Get on your knees," she kissed down the side of his neck and slowly back up, "my love," she whispered in his ear. 

His arousal was throbbing in earnest now, his need for her intense. Just as she had felt with him this morning, she was the only person he could ever be happy being subservient to. He did as she had asked, wanting -- desperately -- to be led by her. 

She picked up a bottle of shampoo and poured some into her palm, wetting and then beginning to lather it through his wet hair. He moaned at the sensation, leaning his head back to meet her massaging hands, as they softly kneaded his scalp. 

His head rested on her stomach behind him. She leaned over him to kiss his lips briefly. "You have beautiful hair, Michael." She was keeping eye contact with him -- doing a very good job of keeping the shampoo out of his eyes -- while talking to him from above -- upside down . . . a rather ludicrous picture. He smiled. "Why ever did you cut it?" 

His smile faded. She had hit a topic he wasn't prepared for. "Elena wanted me to." 

He looked so saddened. She was sorry she had asked. She leaned over further and took his lips again, kissing him deeply, passionately -- or at least, as much as she could in her current position. 

He moaned and held her in it for a second, till she pulled back. She certainly knew how to make him forget. He sighed happily again, his tone becoming teasing. "You don't like it?" 

"Mmm," she sighed, a breast rubbing over his face and then through his hair, as she stood back up. "I wouldn't say that." She leaned around to kiss his temple before looking at him briefly again. "You're beautiful, no matter what." She shook her head. "The hair's inconsequential." She smiled at him impishly before standing up once again. 

He sighed, loving every second of this. She was so beautiful, and she made him feel so wanted . . . so cherished. . . . It was something he couldn't quite get used to. 

"Close your eyes," she instructed. She leaned his head forward and washed off the shampoo, running her fingers through the short locks to rid him of it completely. He sighed, and she massaged his scalp for a few seconds longer. 

She loved him like this -- loved that he was so open to her, that she could tease and arouse him -- that he seemed to want her to. Yes, this was a fantasy she was enjoying. Just to have an opportunity to touch him like this made everything more beautiful for her. 

She felt stronger -- loved. Michael was almost always so insular -- so isolated, never allowing -- never wanting--anyone inside his shell. To have him this ready -- this happy to be touched by her was wonderful. . . . She was definitely wishing that this would never end. 

She was just thinking this, when she felt his hands reach behind himself to run up the backs of her legs, moving up until they reached her soft curves, holding her against his shoulder -- grinding her there, wet against him. . . . It was a hard position for him to achieve, but he was enjoying it far too much to complain. 

Nikita licked her lips and moaned. That, plus the warmth of her against his back, was enough to make him decide that the time had come to temporarily change who was in charge. 

He let go of her and turned around to face her, still on his knees. He took hold of her again, drawing her close and started to kiss along the planes of her stomach and abdomen. 

She moaned, holding him to her. "You're clean, Michael. I'm not." She wasn't really trying to undo all of her work. . . . Besides, she was enjoying teasing him. 

He bit her stomach lightly and then licked after it -- to her warm moan, as he savored the irony of her last statement. . . . If anything, it was the exact opposite. "We'll change that," he said aloud. 

He moved back the curtain and reached outside it for just long enough to grab a couple of towels. "You'll get them wet!" she reminded him -- surprised, but he just kissed her stomach again. 

"There are more," he responded casually. 

He threw one of the towels to the end of the tub and then lay one behind her hips, lying her back on top of them -- her head coming to rest on the first one. They were large and soft -- cushioning her from the hard tile of the tub. He came to rest on top of her, kissing her possessively, to her pleased groan. 

"How does that feel?" he asked, when he leaned back from her momentarily. 

"How does it feel?" she repeated to herself silently, ironically. He always . . . always felt wonderful. 

She smiled back at him. "I could get used to it," she said seductively -- teasingly; she was spread erotically before him. "But I did think this was a shower." 

He smiled back. "You want to get clean?" 

"Among other things," she thought to herself. Outwardly, she simply smiled. 

He sat back and took her foot in his hand, the other reaching for the soap. He brought her appendage to his mouth and then ran his tongue in between two of her toes. 

An involuntary, deep groan rose from her. "Like that?" he asked with a sexy smile. 

She swallowed and attempted to fake nonchalance. "It'll do." He smiled back at her playful taunting, loving that she would give him the opportunity to tease back. He took one of her toes in his mouth and suckled it, while his other hand ran the soap up the inside of her thigh and then down her leg -- in long strokes -- simply watching her. 

Oh God, this felt too good; she could no longer tease. Her head fell back, as she moaned. "Yes." 

He smiled again and suckled the next toe, running his mouth up and down along it, while his hand continued his work in lathering her leg. She closed her eyes, lost in sensation. 

He went on with this pattern, suckling each toe in turn. When her leg was finally lathered, he put down the soap and ran his hand up and down her long -- now slickened -- limb, enjoying the feel of the strong muscles there. His hand tended to linger on her inner thigh -- running up just enough to tease her depths, but not enough to touch them. 

She was moaning constantly, by the time he switched off his playthings. Again, he ran his tongue between the toes of her foot before beginning to suckle each one individually -- while his other hand began lathering her leg. 

She was still lost to his touch -- unable to respond in anything more than deep moans. Her hips were thrusting slightly, her need building terribly. . . . She knew she shouldn't be surprised; Michael had simply found another wonderful, inventive way to please her. 

Once he had finished his work -- loving every second of watching her writhe pleasurably under his touch -- he took one of her feet in his hands and began massaging it slowly. Her eyes popped open. "Oh, Michael," she moaned. This felt wonderful. 

He interspersed his caresses with long licks of his tongue up the sole of her foot. She was a bit ticklish, so she squirmed with pleasure under his new ministrations. 

Finishing with that foot, he turned to the other, happy to be bringing her such pleasure. He loved that he could bring that happy, overwhelmed smile to her beautiful face. . . . He wanted to be able to do that every day. 

His arousal still bobbed, his need for her almost painful by now, but he had been trained in ignoring such things, when necessary. . . . It had almost never been necessary before, however -- except with her. 

She was spread before him like a beautiful present, like the most joy-filled plaything. He planned on enjoying her to both of their full potential soon. 

When he had finished his caresses, he lifted her legs further into the shower spray, running his hands down the backs -- wiping away the soap. She moaned more loudly, as he held her legs apart again, the shower spray now aimed directly at her depths. "Mmmm," she moaned. 

He smiled at her, letting go of her legs -- once they were clean -- and moved a hand to her center of need, lightly stroking the tender bud. Her eyes popped open to flare heatedly at him; his hand wandered over her, stroking her delicately, opening her occasionally to the water's probing reach -- to her moans. 

The wonderful slickness of the honey he felt here had nothing to do with the water he aimed at her. . . . God, he loved this. 

He looked very -- mock -- serious. "I don't think I've washed you here yet." 

Her eyes widened, and he lowered his head to her core, still looking up at her. He licked up over the entire area, brushing just past and inside the opening to her depths and then over her bud in every long stroke of his tongue. She let out a choking sound and arched her hips at him for more, her eyes closing. 

She was groaning constantly. Every time his mouth was off of her, the water took its place. She was caught between wonderful, erotic stimulations -- the combination entrancing. 

He licked in circles around her bud and then looked up at her, catching her eyes, when she opened them. "Guide me, 'Kita," he requested, taking one of her hands. 

Her breathing was ragged; she was overcome by desire. That he wanted her to take control aroused her perilously; my God, she loved this man. 

She placed her hands on his head, stroking them through his hair, and led him over her -- guiding him to all of the places she needed him most. For awhile, she held him to her bud, while he suckled and licked the ultra-sensitive flesh -- teasing it with the very tip of his tongue and then suckling her hard. 

The sensations spiralled into her with a throbbing rhythm; they were too much. When she could take no more of this teasing -- when she started to come, she let out a gasping, "Mi-chael." He grazed past her lightly with his teeth -- a final stroke of his tongue soothing her, before she moved him to her now-ravenous core. 

Her inner walls were trembling, as he entered her. . . . He moaned. He loved tasting her -- loved that he could bring forth the beautiful honey that flowed only from her. He ran his tongue down one shuddering wall and began stroking along it, as she gasped beneath him. 

He could happily spend the rest of his life pleasing her this way. His hand came up to stroke her bud, as well, and she pulled his head down on herself harder -- commandingly but not painfully for him. . . . God, he loved when she was demanding. 

His tongue continued its soft assault -- stroking deep into her, hitting a tender inner spot, one which was still overused and even a little sore from their earlier activities. He licked at it with just the pressure he knew she needed -- following both the guidance of her hands and his own inner understanding of her desires. 

"Uhhhh," she groaned. God, he could please her. He knew just how much to give her and when -- never over or understaying his welcome. She was grinding her hips up at him repeatedly, loving the way he felt -- holding his head to her. . . . She loved that he wanted her erotic commands. 

He wanted to feel her come again, loved when he could give her that release. His tongue stroked further into her -- hitting the perilously-sensitive spot with just the right pressure, while pinching lightly at her bud. 

She screamed out, her head back in the towel he had set down as her pillow. She ground herself repeatedly up at him -- rubbing her bud on the expanse of his nose, while he continued to drink from her beautiful core. 

That one move made him moan with desire. He wanted to be the one she always turned to for her needs -- would happily serve her in any way she asked. 

Her fierce shaking beneath him finally started to slow after several minutes, the whole time of which he spent tasting the treasures within her, drinking her in. He was throbbing fiercely in need for her, but he still wasn't quite ready to give in to that desire. 

*********** 

He sat back to look at her, closing his eyes for a second to savor the taste of her; nothing made with human hands could ever come close to its beauty -- nothing else in nature either: no fruit was as sweet to him, no liquor more intoxicating. He opened his eyes again and ran his hands along her thighs, leaning back over her, absolutely adoring that he could give this exquisite woman pleasure. 

He kissed around her face lightly. "I've cleaned the first half," he whispered. 

She opened her eyes and tried to move to capture his lips. "Michael, please," she begged, needing him. 

He looked back at her, all mock seriousness once again. "I can't leave a job half-done, Nikita." 

He reached back behind himself and took the soap once more. Looking down at her for a minute, though, he diverted -- opening the curtain again to grab another towel. He came back in and pulled up her back to lay it under it -- along her spine and up to her shoulders. 

She sighed happily. She hadn't realized that she was uncomfortable, until he had done it; he had been doing a pretty good job of distracting her, after all. 

He smiled back down at her, happy to have pleased her again. He stayed on his knees above her -- half on the towel extending from beneath her hips -- and began rubbing the soap in his hands over her, some of its lather dropping down onto her skin. She was smiling at him, loving this. 

Once his hands were soapy, he leaned over her slightly and began to run them up her abdomen and stomach, massaging the lather into her smooth skin. His hands traced gently over the more sensitive areas here and then moved further up, toward her breasts. 

She moaned at his efforts. He smiled down at and then directed his attention toward those perfect peaks. They were still a little bruised from earlier, and he looked saddened at the thought that he had hurt her. 

She caught the train of his thoughts and tried to stop them. "Michael," she said softly. 

He looked up to her face, smiling -- agreeing not to go into it now -- and then ran his hands very lightly over the taut, delicate peaks, caressing away any ache they may have felt. 

She moaned in pleasure, her head back. "Yes," she breathed. They were still sore from their earlier activities, but Michael was making sure that she was entirely unaware of any pain. 

He cleaned off one of the buds lightly with the corner of a nearby towel and leaned down over her -- balancing his forearms on the bottom of the tub -- to take it in his mouth. He loved it softly there, arousing her with his warm, wet tongue -- with his intimate knowledge of her desires. 

He stayed there for several minutes, while she was groaning constantly. Then he moved his lips up to her shoulder -- kissing her there before continuing to spread the foamy soap over her skin. 

"Yes," she moaned, as he kissed over her throat. 

His hands went to her back then, massaging the lather into the tired muscles -- which had been relieved not at all from their usual pain by having been stretched so thoroughly only hours ago. She roamed her hands over his back, as well -- loving the feel of his skin, while he soothed away the tired ache he had also -- unintentionally -- helped to create. 

Once she was slippery, he helped to lift her up toward him, raising her onto her knees in the spray. His hands ran down her body, cleaning off the lather -- all the time watching her lovingly. 

Once that was done, he leaned her further forward -- her head on his shoulder, so that the water would run down her back. He held her hair up, his mouth kissing and suckling at her neck, while his other hand cleaned off her back. She was moaning constantly. 

He was loving every second of this; her body was so unbelievably beautiful -- was so arousing. That she wanted his touch made him insane. 

His reverie was broken slightly, however, by his next move. He pulled her face back to look at it, his hands smoothing over the skin, and he was saddened to discover what her make-up had hidden: the small bruises that the last mission had given her -- evidence -- once again -- of his failure to protect her. 

"Michael, it's not your fault," she said softly, knowing what he was seeing. 

"Yes, it is," he asserted quickly. 

She knew that, to an extent, he was right, of course, but she didn't want him to focus on that now. He regretted; she hoped he had learned, and he hadn't been in control of his actions, anyway. There was no need for recriminations here. 

She shook her head. "Don't." 

He closed his eyes, knowing she was right, to a certain extent. Besides, he had a chance to help now; he could try to make up for it. He kissed lightly at each light, healing bruise, wishing that the dangers these marks were proof of were ones she never had to face. 

Each kiss marked her soul gently. She swayed against him, moaning -- the tenderness in his caress arousing her even further. 

When he had done all he could do here, he looked at her once more and then reached behind her to pick up the towel she had lain on, bringing it up into the spray -- twisting it to cleanse it of its soapy contaminant. "Michael, you don't have to do that," she murmured. 

He kissed her, distracting her, while he finished his work, not wanting her to ever have any unpleasant diversions during their lovemaking. She allowed his distraction, too -- loving him for the thought, holding him in the kiss, while she searched his sweetness deeply in gratitude for all of the pleasure he had given her -- for all of the love they shared. 

He broke from the kiss finally -- having lain the towel back on the tiles where her back would be. He stroked his fingers lightly over her cheek, smiling at her. 

"Stay here," he whispered. He then got up -- as she sat there, confused -- moving out of the tub and then back into it -- behind her. 

He kissed along her newly-cleaned back and leaned her forward -- to her groan. He positioned her head just slightly beyond the range of the water and then grabbed the shampoo, pouring a little and beginning to rub it into her hair. 

She moaned happily, as Michael's hands massaged her scalp, rubbing this new lather into it. He piled her locks on her head and scrubbed them gently, leaning toward her to fix his teeth softly over a sensitive spot of skin on her neck before running his tongue over it. She moaned with his touch. 

He finished massaging the shampoo in after several minutes and then pulled her back into the shower's spray. He ran his hands over her, helping to remove any traces of lather from her long locks. 

He had always loved her hair, had loved the few times he had been able to touch it. He found everything about it intoxicating -- its softness, its scent -- the way it reflected the light of the sun and the moon. . . . There was absolutely no light she wasn't beautiful in. 

He put his arms around her and held her back against him for a moment, kissing down her cheek, just loving the intimacy of being near her like this. She moaned and put her hands over his, reveling in the sensation of being held by him. 

He began kissing down her neck again. He had put off his desire for her for some time now, but he knew it wasn't going to wait much longer. 

He pulled back from her, standing up, and left the shower once more, only to return in front of her. . . . Considering she was pretty much eye level with his hips at the moment, it was a very intriguing view. 

She looked up at him not very innocently and then opened her mouth for a second to take in the tip of his arousal, suckling it. His shaft jumped, and he moaned. . . . He knew he could take no more of this erotic torment. 

He pulled back from her and returned to his knees; he lay her back once more, then -- coming to rest on top of her. The kiss he gave her was deep and passionate, arousing them both even further. 

He was throbbing against her now, his need intense. The opportunity to leisurely please her -- to spend his time tracing all of the parts of her he so dearly loved had been one he would never have given up -- but it had made his desire for her almost maddening. 

She groaned under him, sharing his thoughts. They had both been the explorer and the explored today -- had both loved and been loved. . . . Neither of them could wait much longer. 

Michael's hands ran up her legs to further part her inner thighs, his arousal nudging her depths. She whimpered under him, through the kiss. 

He suddenly looked back at her, though, breaking the kiss -- needing confirmation. "Do you love me, Nikita?" He knew it was a cruel thing to ask her, since he couldn't tell her the reverse, but he needed to hear the words from her desperately -- suddenly had to know for certain that this was no dream. 

She stroked his face, smiling slightly. She knew the fears that drove him -- the loss and pain. She wished to God that he could tell her the same thing -- could drive away her similar fears, but she understood that there was no cruelty intended in his question. "Yes, Michael, I love you," she swallowed, "more desperately than I can even explain to myself." 

A tear fell from his face at the pain in her eyes. He hoped that she had mistaken it for spray from the shower. He lowered himself on top of her again, taking her face in both his hands -- searching its beauty deeply; he wasn't even seeing the bruises anymore. Then, he lowered his lips to hers and possessed them, trying to show her in a single, deep, probing kiss all of the love he felt for her in his heart. 

She sighed in it, understanding what he meant -- not having missed the tear. She held him to her in the kiss, sharing all of their love. 

He stretched himself above her -- still kissing, as he lay down completely. He took hold of her hips and skillfully adjusted his own, nudging his arousal into her slightly -- waiting for her reaction before continuing. 

She moaned happily and held him further in the kiss, spreading her legs for him as much as the small tub allowed -- needing him to enter her. He groaned in response and sank another few inches into her, to their mutual groan. 

She was so smooth and wet, was so ready for him; the feeling was overwhelming. He wanted to simply sink himself into her -- to fill her completely in one huge thrust, but he was desperate not to hurt her. He had been an animal this morning -- had savaged her. And, while he knew that she had enjoyed it as much as he had, he still wanted to make it up to her now. 

She broke the kiss. "More, Michael," she begged. She was only half-filled, only half-complete. She needed all of him -- wanted him desperately. . . . If he didn't give her his entire sweet length soon, she would lose her mind. 

She took hold of his hips and pulled him a few more inches in -- closer to her limits. He groaned. She had no idea what she did to him -- how insane with desire she made him. Her need for him would always be his definition of an aphrodisiac. 

They were both gasping slightly. Then, she pulled him toward her one more time, sinking him completely into her -- screaming hoarsely at the sensation. . . . God, he felt good. 

"Yes," he moaned. He panted for a second. "God, yes," he whispered. 

They kissed again -- their need flaring. But, while the kiss was ravenous, their motions were not. 

He took his time, his rhythm slow and sensual -- filling her completely before stroking almost entirely out of her -- then sinking back in, wonderfully deep, again. Her hands were still on his hips, loving the partial control she had here, the wonderful feeling of power it gave her to help him please them both. She met every thrust in earnest. 

His head fell back with the feeling of being in her again. It didn't matter that it had only been hours since the last time; were they ever able to be lovers whenever they wanted -- were they ever capable of forming their own lives on their own terms, he would still say a prayer of thanks every time he joined with her. 

She leaned up and suckled at a tender spot on his neck, to his low groan. His thrusts were still slow but they were becoming a little harder. The feeling of the still, somehow, warm water pounding on his back, pouring onto his sensitive curves combined with the tight, sensual rhythm of being inside her was almost too much -- was too beautiful. . . . He wanted her to feel it too. 

He leaned his head down to her breast and suckled at it softly, breaking her away from her erotic ministrations to his neck. When her head was back and she was gasping, he took hold of her back and turned them both to the side; there wasn't enough room to turn over entirely. 

She felt the water running down between them, felt it intensifying the sensation of Michael's every sweet thrust, and she leaned her head back and groaned. He ran his tongue over her nipple repeatedly, taking in her pleasure, as she held him to her. "Michael," she moaned. 

Now aware of where his thoughts were headed, she agreed when he continued trying to turn them over, maneuvering her to ride on top. . . . It was a difficult trick, but they managed it. 

When they had switched positions, the towels now askew but helping to keep him buffered from any real damage, Nikita began riding him in long, slow thrusts, as she threw her head back into the spray of the shower and groaned. The combination of Michael's long, thickened shaft in her -- sliding along her tight walls rhythmically -- and the water trailing down her body was almost unbearable. Her hands -- now on his waist -- were almost painful. 

He looked up at her, as she rode him. She was almost too beautiful to bear. Her sweet, warm depths took him in in a way he could barely stand to contemplate -- in a way so complete it left him breathless. . . . To see her so abandoned to pleasure made him almost ache with need. 

The water ran down her slick body, came dripping off of her aroused, taut nipples. He wanted to taste them so badly he was almost insane. 

He sat up quickly, his hands running from her hips to her upper back. He closed his mouth over the rosy, aching little point and suckled her, his strokes inside her thrusting directly to her most intimate core; the sweet friction of their bodies together was enough to make him even more overwhelmingly aroused. 

She groaned loudly and held him to her, riding him harder. He beat in her at the same tempo as her own, wildly-syncopated heart. He was grinding in her against a perilously over-sensitized spot. 

She was holding him to her heart, as she rode him -- as he suckled there, tasting the beauty of her skin. She was groaning wildly, trying to push him insanely far into herself -- simply unable to get enough of his wonderful, strong shaft -- of the need he was presenting to her so openly. "Michael . . . Michael," she moaned. 

His thrusts were hitting her in the most beautifully intimate way for them both. She could feel him in every pore, in every cell; he filled her so completely she couldn't imagine this ever ending, . . . yet she was desperate -- at the same time -- to achieve that aching release his body promised her -- to give it to them both. 

For him, filling her like this was every fantasy of his life. She healed him, aroused him -- completed his spirit in a way he could never fully express. The head of his shaft was so sensitive he was almost insane with the feeling, every thrust bringing him -- bringing them both -- closer to the completion they needed so desperately. 

She began riding him faster, harder -- showing herself no mercy, completely oblivious to the over-sensitivity she had from that morning. Nothing mattered now except this -- except that they would come . . . together. 

He groaned, releasing her breast, his head back, eyes closed for a second. Every second he held on was a torture. . . . Every one was a sweet, intensely-arousing miracle. 

"'Ki-ta," he moaned hoarsely. His hands took hold of her soft curves, pulling her down to rest repeatedly -- heavily on his length -- softly pummeling the head of it into her with every stroke. 

Her nails were damaging the skin of his shoulders. "Michael, . . . yes, God. . . . Michael." 

She looked down at him the same second he looked up, their eyes connecting on a deep, spiritual level. She let out a strangled groan at the bond she felt with him there, and then -- a second later -- he pulled her down strongly onto himself, groaning, "'Ki-ta." 

She jerked against him at the same moment that he thrust up into her wildly. They each gave one more, rotating stroke and then shuddered, as Michael pulled her down on him . . . hard. 

Their sobbing moans filled the room, each one so completely caught up in the intense pleasure of the moment that they were beyond speech and thought. Their arms crushed themselves to one another, caught each other in a kiss which bruised in its intensity. 

Her inner walls were unspeakably tight and rippling around him. His shaft was beating, was shuddering of its own accord in her, was releasing its warmth to fill her. 

They pulled back from the kiss to catch a single breath and then released it in a mutual, shuddering sigh. They looked in each other's eyes -- still shaking and overwhelmed -- for one more second and then fell heavily against one another, clinging to each other for life and hope. . . . For one more time -- in lives otherwise so often filled with despair --they were one. . . . They were whole. 

*********** 

It was fortunate, really, that Section tended to provide some things to its operatives. Had it not, after all, heaven only knows what Nikita would have found to wear--given some of the results of their morning's lovemaking. 

Following their shower, however, Michael had given her a very soft white terry robe which had come with the apartment--one of the many things which he had simply found hanging in his closet. It was standard issue, really; it gave operatives something vaguely presentable--by the outside world's standards--to throw on, in case they actually had to answer the door unexpectedly. It was part of a sort of starter kit the organization provided in any new outside quarters--giving their personnel one less thing to focus on outside of missions, until they had the time to shop for themselves. 

Their shower had relaxed them both considerably, the warm water washing away what anxieties their intimacy hadn't. They hadn't said much since it, though; they were both a little too happy at their current situation to want to risk breaking the peaceful mood with speech. 

After he had presented the robe to her, with a smile--sighing as he watched her draw it over her smooth flesh--and had found a soft pair of pants he could wear without bothering with underwear, he had drawn her silently over to the one chair he had and sat her down. He had already toweled off his own hair and was letting it dry on its own-an advantage of his new, shorter style; now, he wanted to tend to hers. 

He stood behind her with a comb and very carefully began to create some order from her locks' wild chaos. He had loved every second of being able to wash it, earlier, and he wanted to take advantage of the time they now had to be able to indulge a few more of his fantasies. 

He was very gentle with her, always protecting her from any possible pains of untangling. Her hair was so soft--so tempting; he knew she found it annoying, at times, but he was always pleased that she had never decided to cut it. 

She sighed and closed her eyes, while he tended to her. His hands felt so good, as they would occasionally brush across the skin of her neck or scalp. . . . She had been a bit surprised by his decision to do this--unaware, still, of just how much he loved any chance to be close to her, of how entranced he was by every aspect of her beauty. She had no complaints, however; he was remarkably skilled. 

Her eyes opened suddenly, as her mind switched tracks. Michael noticed her stiffen a little. "Yes?" he prompted quietly. 

"It's nothing." She didn't want to break the mood. 

He understood her desire to stay in their fantasy world but also knew that to deny whatever was bothering her would be a mistake. He leaned over to brush a kiss across her temple. "Go on." 

She sighed; she wished she had never thought of it. "Did you do this for Elena?" she asked softly. 

His hands stopped momentarily before continuing on with their work. "Sometimes," he whispered sadly; it had held no joy for him then. 

She nodded just a little, hoping they could leave it at that-hoping that she hadn't destroyed their fragile peace. 

He knew she wasn't entirely satisfied with the answer, however. "I also used to do this for Simone," he added quietly. 

"Oh," she breathed. She had only seen Michael's wife once-during that unfortunate soul's final hours; although she knew the poor woman had been tortured--that she had obviously been much more beautiful before her prolonged imprisonment, she had never really spent much time pondering what the exact differences in her appearance might have been. 

He understood her thoughts. "She had beautiful hair, once," he said quietly--remembering sadly. 

Nikita stopped the hand which was stroking along her hair--trying to turn around. "Michael . . ." 

He slipped softly out of her grasp and put his hands on her shoulders--gently but firmly, as he pressed his cheek up to hers. 

"Hold still," he said quietly. He straightened and continued his work. She sighed, about to speak. 

"Don't apologize," he interrupted her thought. Before she could argue, as well, he added, "There's no reason to." She tried to turn around again. 

He held her gently in place. "Hold still," he commanded quietly, his cheek at her temple again. He kissed her there once more and then resumed his work. 

She shuddered pleasantly at his soft touch--and the passionate timbre of his voice. She didn't really understand why his orders aroused her here, when she frequently *hated* them otherwise. She supposed, though, that it had something to do with intent; here, after all, they were all aimed at her pleasure. 

He went on--explaining some things he had wanted to tell her for a long time. "I loved Simone. . . . I still miss her." He moved to another strand of hair, untangling softly. 

She swallowed, her fears of being a simple substitute for his true love rising again; there had just been too much pain and doubt in her life to not question any happiness she might find. She searched for a way to ask about her anxieties. "Do I remind you of her?" 

"No," he answered simply, his voice still quiet. "Simone was more like me." 

She closed her eyes, trying to hold back her tears. She wanted the truth--loved that he wouldn't lie to her, . . . but the truth here was brutalizing. 

He knew what her fears were; he continued to explain himself. "I wish I could have saved her, Nikita." His voice had tears in it, as he switched subjects very slightly. "I love that *you* tried to -- that you would help . . . when you didn't even know her . . . when I had given you no reason to." 

He swallowed heavily, taking a deep breath; his voice got much softer, as he struggled to make his real point. "For as much as I want her alive, though--for all she will always mean to me," he paused, gathering the strength to finish, "I wouldn't change any of it--if doing so meant I had to lose what's between us." 

She let out something between a sob and a gasp. "Michael," she murmured. She had *never* imagined this truth before--that Simone was --for all he had loved her--simply a stage he had had to pass through on his way to her. 

Silent tears were rolling down her cheeks. He leaned over and rubbed his face softly against hers for a second, taking in her scent, then kissed her cheek and stood back up to continue his silent work. 

They were quiet for awhile after that. There were few words they could really say after an admission that large. 

He finished his work quietly and then turned her around. He put down the comb and rubbed his thumbs over her cheeks to remove the tears. He kissed her softly and then refocused on her. "Do you want to eat now?" 

She swallowed heavily and nodded. She was still a little beyond words. She drew him into one more kiss, however, before he leaned back to smile at her. 

"Good," he said simply. He wandered over to his kitchen and began to search for ingredients. 

She took a deep breath and followed him. . . . It was turning out to be quite a day. 

He pulled out some eggs, cheese, and a few other items. She smiled at him. "I don't have much else right now," he smiled back quietly. "I can order us some more groceries later." He moved around her and began cooking. 

"'Order'?" 

He smiled to himself, focusing on his work. "With the right money, you can always get what you want." 

She nodded slightly, supposing that was true. She had always been so happy just to have a place to live and the money for food; it had never occurred to her to try to get someone else to bring it to her. 

She followed this train of thought a bit. "Have you always had money, Michael?" 

He looked at her, a little surprised by the question. His face became impassive, as he nodded. "Yes." He looked back to his work. 

She watched him sadly. She knew he wasn't trying to block her out; she had just hit upon another subject which brought back unhappy memories, one he didn't want to focus on. She understood, of course; her childhood wasn't something she wanted to think about very often, either. 

It was sad, really, she pondered. They had grown up half a world away from each other--in very different surroundings . . . several years apart, but the loneliness and pain of their upbringing had been the same. . . . She wondered for a second whether, given the chance to try, she and Michael could have changed that for another generation. 

She shook herself out of the thought. Why dream the impossible, when they were already living out a small fantasy? She kissed his bare shoulder and stroked his back, as he cooked. "Anything I can do?" 

He shook his head and looked at her, a smile returning to his face. Her small touch on his skin had provided him with a world of comfort, breaking him out of the painful memories of a past he would have been happier forgetting forever. "No. Sit. It'll be ready soon." 

She smiled at him and went to sit on the floor nearby, looking around his empty apartment for a second. "We have got to get you some furniture," she pondered silently before looking back to where he was. Then, she spent the next several minutes quietly, happily--just watching him. 

Awhile later, after they had finished a couple of rather large omelets and some bacon--both of their appetites piqued by their exhausting activities that morning--and were waiting for a few things Michael had ordered to be delivered, they simply sat watching one another. Nikita's head was propped against the wall. 

"What is it?" he asked, seeing more questions in her eyes. 

"Is Section letting us be together like this?" 

He sighed. "For a little while." 

She looked more curious. "Did they tell you?" 

He shook his head. "No." 

She sighed deeply. "How long do you think we have?" 

He looked up at the ceiling, wishing back the pain. "I don't know." 

She laughed a little. "But for now, I'm being allowed to `comfort' you." 

He nodded, very sad, refocusing on her. "Probably." 

She nodded, as well, before looking around the apartment. "Do you think they're watching?" 

God, he hoped not. He took a deep breath. "It's possible." 

She nodded again, a look of disgust on her face. Then, however, the look changed suddenly, as she stared at Michael in wonder and appreciation. . . . He knew they might be watching. . . . He knew, and he was still with her--was still talking openly with her . . . was still sharing their small fantasy world. . . . She had never loved him more. 

He smiled back at her, knowing her thoughts. Section knew they loved each other; it had never been a secret to anyone but themselves. If they were being presented with this chance by their masters, then they would be fools to pass on it. 

He sighed happily, his thoughts focused on her. He loved that she was agreeing to simply enjoy whatever time they were allowed together--loved that they had been able to, even temporarily, progress this far together. 

Anything else they might have said on this subject, however, was delayed by the arrival of the delivery boy--bringing with him several large packages. Michael talked to him only through the intercom-his security system now definitely engaged--and watched him through the surveillance equipment that was equipped in his front hallway. 

The boy came into the front hall enough to put the packages down and take the envelope with the generous tip he had been left. Then, he scurried off--the bill already having been paid with Section's credit card, Michael's odd security arrangements convincing the teenager--once again--that the rich were a weird bunch. 

Once the boy had left, Michael descended to check out the packages, looking for any bombs or other devices, and--finding nothing-brought them upstairs. . . . He hated, though, that his idyll with Nikita should be even vaguely marred by his fears for their safety. 

He unpacked the groceries he had ordered, while leaving Nikita to search through a couple of bags of clothes--all, of course, in her size. She looked up at him. "I could have just run home for a few minutes." 

He was still focused on his unpacking, trying to hide an inner smile. "What would you have worn to get there?" 

She nodded a little--smirking slightly, seeing his logic. . . . Besides, she *really* didn't want to run into Mick and have to explain some of the new marks she was sporting on her neck. 

Once his work was done, he rejoined her. "Do you like them?" 

She nodded, holding up a dress in front of her. "Think this one'll make it through in one piece?" she asked coyly. 

He smiled slightly, his eyes warm. "We'll see." He stroked his thumb over her cheek. "What do you want to do with the rest of our night?" 

She thought about it a bit more deeply than he had anticipated, a thoughtful look on her face. "Would you do something for me?" 

He looked at her curiously. "What?" 

She focused behind him. "Would you play it for me?" 

He turned to see the abandoned cello and smiled slightly in his surprise. . . . If this kept up, he would have no unpleasant memories left in his new home at all. He looked back to her and kissed her tenderly before pulling away to take up a place in his apartment's only chair. 

They spent the next two hours in a soft tableau--Michael playing beautiful music she loved but didn't know, Nikita listening at his feet. When he finally stopped and put down the instrument, she looked at him thoughtfully. "Why didn't you ever tell me you could play?" 

"You never asked," he replied simply. 

She laughed, looking down. Some things never changed. Sometimes she thought that--even if she knew him for decades--he would still come up with some hidden talent or another he had simply never bothered to mention. 

He was an odd combination, really--she continued to ponder, of ego and humility--of dominance and submission. He could absolutely command her, like he had that morning, but he could also be aroused by her demands--could do anything she asked to fulfill her. 

She looked back up at him. . . . He was such a beautiful conundrum. 

He focused on her curiously. "What are you thinking?" 

She smiled. "That I love you." 

His eyes were surprised and enraptured. He simply sat there, taking her in. 

She returned the favor, her eyes tracing over his soft hair to the strong, defined lines of his face. The look continued downward to wash heatedly over the beautiful lines of his chest, noting the contraction of his nipples into small points under her gaze. 

That one, wonderful sight, convinced her of what she wanted; she refocused on his eyes. "You asked me a while ago what I wanted to do with the rest of the night." Her eyes trailed a fire down him before capturing his again. "I think I know." 

************** 

His look returned her heat a hundredfold. He started to stand, but she shook her head, rising to her feet to come to him. 

She looked down on him, tracing her fingers over his cheek. "Do you trust me, Michael?" 

The words frightened him a little. He had simply been hurt--and had hurt others--for too long; he had learned never to trust. 

With Nikita, though, here in his home--in this fantasy world they had lovingly created, his answer was instinctive. "Yes. . . . I do." 

She smiled seductively, a little dangerously. "Good." She stretched out her hand to take his, silently asking him to stand; when he did--his eyes still lost in his devotion to her, she led him along behind her to his makeshift bed. 

He followed--entranced. He knew she was going to take control this time--was going to make him a subject to her will. . . . God, he loved that--loved that she was turning the tables on him; had he been a less healthy man, in fact, the constant, swift diversion of blood he had been experiencing all day might have done him damage. 

She took him to the mattress and turned to him, maneuvering his back to it. Her hands ran along his shoulders. "Lie down." 

He looked at her passionately and did as he was told. 

She left him momentarily to search through his closet. She turned back to him, holding up a tie. "Are you fond of this?" 

He shook his head, his eyes widening a little--divining her plan. "Not particularly." 

"Good," she smiled. 

He watched her return to the bed with a predatory look in her eye, untying the robe he had given her. Halfway across the room, it dropped to the floor, leaving her body open--naked. 

His breathing was ragged, his desire raging. She came to stand over him--a foot on either side of his hips, looking down, and he groaned--needing her. His eyes raked up and down the amazing, beautiful lines of her body; he was throbbing strongly for her now. He began to sit up to reach for her. 

"No," she stated simply. "Lie still." 

His heart started beating faster at the command in her voice, his eyes locked to hers--waiting for her orders. She smiled, knowing she had control, and lowered herself to her knees--coming down to sit on top of his need, pressing her heated core to his still-covered arousal. "Do you like what you see?" she teased him. 

"Yes," he moaned. 

She took an end of the silk tie and rubbed it along his bare chest--down its center to the small trail of hair which led to his shaft. "Who's in control here?" she asked him knowingly. 

"You are," he agreed. 

She trailed the tip of the silk in a circle around his nipple, and he closed his eyes, groaning. "And why am I in control?" 

He answered without thinking. "Because I want you to be." 

She smiled--that was the right answer. "Very good." She took one of his wrists and wrapped the silk around it gently, then began binding it to the other. He groaned, eyes still closed--unable to watch, too filled with the passion she gave him. She lifted his arms over his head and found the hammer and nails he had used that morning. "Hold very still," she ordered--echoing his earlier words. 

He nodded. Then, he groaned loudly, as he heard the nail sink into the floor--felt his hands--now bound above him. 

Like she had been that morning, though, he was not tightly restrained. If he had needed to, he could have freed himself. 

Also like her, however, he had absolutely no desire to; he wanted--desperately wanted--for her to take control here. . . . He wanted to feel her need and desire for him scalding him in its fire. 

There was no one else he could have been comfortable with in this position; it would have brought back too many terrifying memories--would have been humiliating. With Nikita, though, none of this applied. For the next few . . . God, he would happily have made it hours . . . he wanted to be the complete slave to her will. 

He looked back up at her, moaning. "`Kita." It was all he could manage. 

She smiled down at him and leaned forward to kiss him deeply--possessively. Her hands held onto his sides--her thumbs rubbing roughly over his nipples. 

She was half-aware that she was reenacting their scene from this morning--now taking on his role; it aroused her terribly, however, that he would give himself up to her will--to her desire--this way. And she wondered whether this raging need to possess, this joy in his trust of her was what he had felt earlier with her, as well. 

He moaned once more. He was hoping desperately that she would be rough with him. He wanted her to need him that badly. 

She broke from the kiss by trailing her teeth lightly along his lower lip, to his gasping groan. "It's no fair not to watch, Michael," her voice purred. 

He forced his eyes open to look at her and realized consciously why he had so enjoyed having her watch him, earlier that day. He had wanted--like she did now with him--to be aware of her emotions every second, to know for certain that the sort of rough love he was giving was what she needed--that he had her full and total consent. 

He looked at her with desperate need--his eyes begging her to take him--to ravage him, to leave nothing behind in her wake. She smiled a deliciously wicked smile at him, which made his heart beat even faster--his arousal throbbing against her. 

She rubbed her hips against him in a circle--having noticed his reaction. "Do you like this?" 

"Yes." He was panting, returning her rhythm. "Please, Nikita," he paused, repressing a gasp, "take me." 

She laughed deep in her throat. "I intend to," she murmured, still tormenting his hard buds--now rubbing them between her fingers. 

She leaned over to run her teeth over his lips for a second--pulling away before he could catch her in a kiss. He groaned, and she ran her tongue down the stubble on his jaw, loving the rough feel of it. 

She came to a stop at a tender spot on his neck--one she had already loved a little earlier. She grazed her teeth over the sensitive area, her thumbs still tormenting his nipples--her nails running over them from time to time. 

He gasped, loving this. "Please," he begged. 

She bared her teeth and drew them over the tender spot--to his groan. Then, she sucked it into her mouth and suckled roughly at it, using her teeth to torment it, as well. 

He groaned loudly and thrust his hips at her--desperate for more. His arousal grew even stronger against her. 

She backed away from the spot for a second. "You have to learn to ask," she said simply, locking eyes with him. 

"Please, Nikita . . . more," he begged, giving in instantly. He panted--enjoying, for one of the only times he could really remember, the submissive role. "Please be rough with me." 

She smiled lasciviously at him and ran her nails lightly over his nipples. "Very good," she purred. She leaned down to give him his reward, attaching her teeth to the tender spot once more and biting him with just the rough pressure he needed. 

"Yes!" He panted. "More. . . . God, yes . . . more." 

She growled against his skin and ran her teeth over his soft flesh, causing him to buck against her. She loved the feeling of his small bristles in her mouth--the rough surface arousing her-entrancing her tongue. She loved to taste his skin. 

She continued there for another minute or so, before she decided to move on to lick and bite small marks down his throat. "Yes," he breathed. 

She ran her tongue into the hollow, kissing him there, running her teeth over the skin briefly--lightly, her tongue then running over it. She felt his moan reverberate against her tongue. She grazed his nipples with her nails again, and he groaned. 

She moved on to another tender spot and stayed there for a few minutes more, marking him with her love. His arms were taut, stretched above him, as he clung to the tie which bound him, arching his neck into her mouth, as he let out moaning sighs. 

When she had bruised him here, her teeth moved down further-running small bites to the tender flesh of the crook of his neck. She held the straining muscles of his arm away from his head slightly, kissing them briefly, to allow her closer to the sensitive area. 

She teased him then by running her tongue over the skin--back and forth repeatedly. "Please," he begged. Given the sign of submission she wanted, she ran her teeth over him strongly, repeatedly, marking him--biting him--in a pattern. 

Tears of pleasure were coming to his eyes. "Yes . . . `Kita," he sighed, moaning. 

She was so perfect. He could barely stand the fact that she wanted him so badly--was loving every second of her rough love. 

He realized a little more now, too, that she hadn't been covering for him when she had told him he hadn't hurt her this morning; if she had felt even the smallest fragment of what he now felt, in fact, the entire question of pain simply hadn't been part of it. All there was was desire . . . the need to feel possessed and wanted by this most exquisite of lovers. 

Content that she had done her work here--as his small groans certainly indicated--she moved small bites over what she could access of his raised shoulder, finally suckling on it for a second. He opened his eyes to watch her--lovingly, overwhelmed. 

She ran her teeth and tongue over the area one last time and smiled up at him briefly, before she licked and softly bit her way down his chest. She came, then--finally, to one of his nipples. Her eyes looked up at him--warning him to watch, before she finally lowered her head to him. 

He groaned, perilously aroused at the sight. She lapped at the small, sensitive bud she had been plaguing with her hand--keeping eye contact with him, while she did. She looked--to his mind--like a lioness preparing to feast. 

His mouth was open, as he panted. She closed her mouth over the tender bud and suckled him; he groaned, eyes wide. "`Kita," he moaned. 

She ran the tip of her tongue over him again. "More?" she asked before returning to her task. 

"Yes," he agreed, still panting. "More." 

She closed her mouth over him and took him in her teeth, grazing them over the small point repeatedly. "Mmmm," she moaned. 

God, he had never seen anything so erotic. "`Kita, yes . . . yes. . . . Love me." 

Her other hand ran a nail over the twin bud--just enough to cause a slight, pleasurable sting. She bit his nipple. 

"Ahhhh," he groaned. "`Kita, please." 

She began biting his nipple roughly, in just the way he needed. Her nail continued to torment the twin. 

Tears of pleasure were in his eyes. He was panting desperately, trying to push the sensitive bud further into her mouth, his hips bucking up against her harder. "Oh God, `Kita." 

She let go of this nipple by running her teeth along him, then giving him one final lick. He groaned, not wanting it to end. She turned her attention to his other nipple now, taking it in her mouth to suckle him strongly, before grazing him with her teeth. He moaned. 

She moved off of him, meanwhile--to his groan at losing her heated pressure on his arousal. She ran her hand down his stomach and abdomen to rest on his still-covered, hardened length. She caressed it through his pants, while suckling him strongly. He moaned, eyes wide. "Ahhh . . . yes." 

She let go of this nipple by again running her teeth along it, giving it one small, hard bite and then a final lick. He was making whimpering noises. . . . He was completely hers. 

*********** 

She straddled his thighs. Her hands began to undo his pants, as her mouth kissed a trail down his stomach. Her eyes were still holding his steadily--heatedly. 

She ran her tongue into his navel while starting to reveal his shaft. As she did, finally, she placed a kiss just above it. He let out a groan. 

She sat up to free him and moved off of him just long enough to discard his clothes. She settled back on his thighs--her heat pressing against them. Her palm was stroking up and down the back of his shaft; he was moaning. She then ran her thumb over the tip, and he let out a small whimper. 

His eyes were wide, as he watched her. Her nipples were aroused, looking so inviting. He loved that she wanted to touch him--he had dreamed about this so often. 

"Do you like having me touch you, Michael?" She gazed down at him heatedly. 

"Yes . . . yes," he panted. 

She ran a finger up the front of his shaft, letting him watch its long ascent. He made a small noise. Her finger trailed a circle around the tip. "Do you want anyone else to touch you?" 

His eyes took on a sudden look of desperate sadness. "Nooo," he cried. 

She looked at him sympathetically and lowered her head to run the tip of her tongue over the very end of his shaft--back and forth--tasting him. The sadness disappeared completely, forgotten, as he groaned. 

She kissed the tip and sat back up, her hand still tracing him lightly. "What do you want me to do, Michael?" 

His heartbeat got a little faster--a fact which was reflected in the jump of his arousal. It turned him on more than he had words for that she was making him ask--making him beg for his release. God, she was a vixen. . . . And she was the most beautiful one ever born. 

"Well?" she prompted, her hand still brushing along him lightly. 

He took a deep breath, bracing himself to ask for this most intimate gift. "Please, `Kita. . . . Taste me." 

She smiled deeply at him and started to lower her head--stopping just before she reached him. "Watch," she commanded. Then, she took the tip into her mouth and suckled him. 

"Oh God, yes," he moaned--barely able to stand the passion of the sight. 

Her hand went down to cup his sac, playing with it--caressing it. She began sucking his tip harder. 

He groaned loudly, his hips thrusting toward her unconsciously; his heartbeat was out of control. . . . This was just too erotic to bear. 

She started to move her mouth further down him--taking more of him in. He pulled his hips back at the last second, though--not allowing her to try to take him all. "Please, don't. . . . Not like that." 

She raised her mouth up to suckle the tip again for a second before releasing him. She waited for an explanation. 

He didn't want to give her one--didn't want to break the wonderfully erotic mood she had created by discussing it. It was simply a move which spoke too much to him of his own past--of the things which Section had forced him to do; he knew how to take a man deep into his own throat, after all, and it was a move--therefore--he associated with prostitutes like himself. He had never enjoyed it, and he knew that `Kita didn't either--knew she was doing it solely to try to please him. . . . But he only wanted her willing submission. 

She read all of his thoughts in his eyes and nodded slightly, wanting desperately to take away the look of distress his memories had caused. She took the head of his shaft back in her mouth--not forcing him to explain. Her tongue caressed the tip, suckling him again--soothing his fears. 

Seeing that she understood--that she was once more following her own desires and not reading ones in him which weren't there, he allowed himself to feel once again. He felt her hot, wet mouth encompassing him--suckling him; he felt her hands caressing him--one massaging his tightened sac, the other closed around his length--moving up to meet her mouth. . . . He was having a lot of trouble not closing his eyes, overwhelmed by the eroticism of the sight. 

He groaned loudly, and she did as well. She loved the taste of him--loved the feel of him throbbing against her tongue. 

She grazed her teeth over him lightly and he moaned out, hips thrusting. Her tongue soothed the ache again, a second before she began moving on him--running her tight mouth half-way down him, then meeting the strong upwards strokes of her hand a few seconds later, as she ran back up his length, establishing a hard rhythm. 

"`Kita," he moaned hoarsely. His hips met her every move. The feeling of it was so deeply erotic; she knew exactly what he wanted, how to please him. . . . He was throbbing painfully in his need for release. 

Even more than the physical sensation of it, however, there was the sight itself. Her eyes were pleasure-filled and possessive, her mouth and both of her hands greedy for him. She was letting out little moans, loving it all. 

He moaned in response. The combination of the sights and sounds was destroying him. He wasn't sure how much longer he could hold out; he could feel his tip becoming even more tenderly aroused, the throbbing throughout his shaft increasing to a dangerously-sensitive pitch. If she didn't stop soon . . . 

"`Kita," he gasped out. His eyes begged her to stop--to save him for herself. 

She ran a very hard suck--almost his undoing--up to the tip and released him for a moment. "So, what's your turn-around time, Michael?" She smiled seductively at him. 

He let out a little choking sound; he was far beyond speech. She wanted this--wanted to give him this. His heart was pounding. 

He couldn't speak, but he nodded slightly. As much as he wanted to be in her immediately, he also wanted to accept this gift from her--one he felt so undeserving of. He knew that she aroused him so thoroughly that he would have no trouble being ready for her once more, soon after it was over. . . . It was trying to *keep* himself from being aroused by her which was his problem. 

She smiled wickedly at him and returned to her work. Her mouth and hand closed over him once more--more roughly this time, her rhythm intense. 

He groaned loudly, watching in awe and terrifying need. She seemed to enclose him completely--to touch every inch of his shaft; he loved that she was being ruthless with him. "Please, . . . harder," he moaned. 

She moaned in response, a slight growl erupting from her, and began sucking him harder--her hand tightening around him. Her eyes watched him thrashing on the bed, his arms still bound above him, his body taut and insanely aroused. His eyes begged for release. . . . She loved that she did this to him. 

She sped up, meeting his insane little thrusts, keeping her rhythm brutal. Then, when it seemed like his muscles couldn't get any more strained or tense, she tightened her hand and brought it up to meet her mouth one last time--running her teeth lightly along him and over his tip. 

He let out a strangled cry and gave one more rotating thrust, just as she lowered her mouth on him once more. Then, he came into her--his pleasure flowing down her throat, the salty bursts warming it, as she drank him in. "Mmmm," she moaned. 

His cry had turned into a prolonged, strangled groan. Tears of joy clouded his eyes. He was beyond thought--was beyond speech; the warmth which ran through him was overwhelming, almost painful. She had given him a gift he would never have considered asking for, . . . and he loved her even more for it. 

He continued to let out little strangled gasps, as she finally let him go, caressing him one last time, her tongue cleaning his tip. She sat back up to look at him, a Cheshire cat grin on her face. 

Her tongue ran out to wipe her upper lip, and he groaned again, watching entranced--so in love it was almost tormenting. "`Kita," he whispered throatily, unable to speak clearly, "please . . . please, kiss me." 

She smiled sweetly at him and then leaned over to share with him the taste of himself. He groaned and kissed her more deeply. All of the blood which had thought it was returning to its normal pathways made a sudden u-turn. . . . God, she could kill lesser men. 

She ran her hands up his arms, loving the taut length of him. She broke the kiss to look at him. "Did you like that?" 

He let out a strangled groan, unable to find the words to express such need and pleasure. Her hand trailed down him, her eyes still focused on his, and she reached for his growing shaft, touching it softly--imperiling his breathing once more--his eyes closing. "N-no," he managed. "Not yet." He panted for a few more seconds, till he opened his eyes finally. "Want to taste you." 

She tried to catch her gasp before it left her but was unsuccessful. "Michael . . ." 

"Please," he repeated. His eyes were loving and bright; they trailed down her to her depths. 

She groaned, giving in--wanting, once again, the feeling of his wonderful, warm mouth on her. Her hand began to travel up to his bonds. 

"No," his desperate voice stopped her. "Don't." He didn't want to be freed--wanted to be bound to her forever. His eyes traveled down her again. "Please." 

Her own eyes widened in understanding. Her breathing grew more shallow. "Michael . . ." 

"Please," he repeated. He wanted to taste her more desperately than he could stand. 

She nodded, a little shakily, and began to maneuver them to allow this. First, she put a pillow under his arms. Then, they both helped move him up more toward his imprisoned hands--slackening the stretch of his arms somewhat, as he rested his head on this new, soft cushion --slightly off the mattress. He sighed happily, knowing that she was helping him fulfill his fantasy. 

She stood up then, walking toward his head. She gingerly placed a foot beside it, between it and his arm--careful that she wasn't pulling even his now-shortened hair by stepping on it. 

"Yes," he murmured, entranced by the encroaching view. 

She put her other foot in place and stared down at him. "You're sure?" 

"*Please*," he moaned. His arousal was throbbing once more--enticed once again by his own willing surrender. 

She groaned and started to lower herself. She stopped--crouched above him, maneuvering her knees to rest on the pillow under his arms; her hands grasped his imprisoned ones. 

He was breathing in her sweet scent--the beautiful flower of her depths just above him. He groaned loudly and tilted his head up to capture her, moaning as his tongue finally entered her. 

Nikita let out a half-screamed groan and lowered herself onto him--careful not to hurt him in his submission. Her hands clung to his, their fingers now intertwined. He moaned into her aroused flesh. 

She let out little moans, as well, as she began to ride him--his tongue stroking through her. He let out a little growl--hungry for her; he loved this--loved giving himself to her completely, thinking only of her pleasure. 

No, he realized--that was a lie. He drank deeply of her, thrusting his tongue further into her to touch all of her smooth walls. He was thinking of his own pleasure, as well; he loved every second of this --wanted to feast on her for eternity. 

She rode him a little harder, still making certain her thrusts weren't too rough for him. His tongue was running up and down one smooth wall--hitting deeper than seemed logically possible; her bud was rubbing against his nose, as well, as he lovingly inhaled her scent. 

He groaned, needing more. He leaned his head forward to go deeper, encouraging her to ride him faster. He didn't give a damn about his safety or comfort; he was concerned only with the fact that he wanted to taste her sweet honey as it ran down his throat. He wanted to feel her walls as they contracted around his tongue--her moan as it reverberated through her. 

She understood his message; she gave herself up to her desire a little further, riding him faster. She had no idea how his tongue could feel so large in her--could be so hard and so soft at once. 

They worked together, and he entered her a little deeper, his tongue hitting a sensitive spot. He held his head forward further to encourage her to thrust down on to him more. She did, and he licked at this tender little place of weakness relentlessly. 

She moaned, now holding his head to her--one hand on his neck to support it, the other in his hair--clinging to him. Her head was on his imprisoned hands, as they stroked through her hair. 

He moved his head slightly to rub his nose against her quivering bud, as he drank from her. He then thrust his tongue into her even more deeply. 

She bucked against him slightly, trying not to hurt him, as she came. Her walls were trembling around his tongue. 

A groan rose from him and he began to drink from her with abandon. This was ambrosia--the food of the gods. . . . That he could arouse her made him incredibly egotistical--made him feel god-like. What greater power could there ever be, after all, than to bring pleasure to the woman he loved--the woman the earth was made for? 

Nikita was still leaned forward, her head over his hands, gasping--was still moaning slightly. It seemed like, every time she thought she knew all of his erotic skills, he surprised her with yet another. 

He was still drinking from her when she lifted herself carefully off of him. He moaned a little, sorry to lose her. 

Her legs were slightly shaky, once she stood. As much as their time together was helping her mental health, it was doing nothing for her mission viability. 

He had both satisfied her need and made it unbearably stronger, all at once. She looked down at him, her eyes ablaze. "You'll pay for that," she said in passion, smiling. 

He smiled back happily. "Please," he whispered. 

************* 

Oh God, she wanted him. She moved back to straddle his thighs again and kissed him wantonly. He moaned. 

She pulled back from the kiss to stroke a hand up his, once again, thickened arousal. "Nice trick, Michael." 

His eyes blazed at her, running down her body. "I had help." 

She groaned, loving the depth of his desire. She leaned her head down to suckle the tip of his shaft for a minute--still locking eyes with him and then let him go with a lick. "Let's see how strong you really are." 

She held on to and stroked along his length, as she positioned herself over him. She teased him by running him along her entrance-just letting him feel the heat of her desire. He groaned, eyes still focused on hers in need. 

"Watch," she taunted him--once again reflecting his earlier orders to her. 

He groaned again and did as she had commanded. Then, she began to lower herself onto him, and he watched in amazement, as inch by inch of himself disappeared into her warm, tight depths. 

She smiled, watching his eyes, as he focused on this completion. He felt wonderful in her--every inch a miracle; she knew he felt the same about her. 

As the last throbbing inch of him disappeared into her, he groaned loudly and lifted his hips up--loving the feel of being inside her, loving the feel of her clasping him. He looked back up to her eyes, his breathing shallow. 

She smiled at him. "Still want it hard?" 

He gasped slightly, overwhelmed by her desire. "Yes," he moaned. 

She smiled again, taking hold of his shoulders. "Good." 

Her walls held on to him tightly, as she raised herself along him. Once she had almost released him, she slid back down more quickly, hitting the head of his shaft--hard. 

He closed his eyes. "Oh God." He opened them once more, warning her with them that this might be a short experience, if she continued like this. 

She smiled at him and ground herself down onto him. "Ask me," she commanded. "Tell me what you want." She didn't need--didn't really want--this to be slow. 

He groaned again--growing further within her. 

She ground herself onto him again, his head deep inside her. "That's a good answer but not the right one." 

His lips were open, his breathing heavy. "`Kita, please," he moaned. 

"Please what?" She ground her core onto him, moving in a little circle but never lifting herself up. 

He was sweating, his hands knotted in their bonds in need. "Please," he gasped, "take me." 

She ground herself in a tight circle again. "Take you how?" 

He panted. "Hard." His eyes divested his soul to her care. "Please." 

She smiled. "Very good, Michael." 

He groaned, as she began riding him--moving up and down in long, deep strokes. She tightened herself with every up thrust, then released her grip each time to thrust herself down onto him--deeply. 

She loved this. He was giving himself up to her entirely. He felt wonderfully large in her; she could feel every incredible, thickened inch of him with each thrust. 

He was moaning. She took him in completely. He had never felt so wanted--so needed--before. 

He loved watching her ride him. He wanted to see her do it harder. . . . He wanted her wild. 

"More," he pleaded. 

She was loving his surrender to her; she wanted more of the power he was offering her. "Beg, Michael," she ordered huskily. 

He groaned loudly. "Yes, `Kita," he moaned. His eyes were so vulnerable. "Please . . . ride me." 

She thrust down on him more strongly, stroking faster. "Like that?" her voice was breathy. 

He groaned. "Yes, . . . oh God, yes. . . . More." 

She smiled a feral smile at him, loving her new control. "Watch," she ordered, riding him faster. Her eyes traveled down. 

His eyes widened, and then he looked down, watching open-mouthed, as their bodies met deeply and then separated--over and over. His shaft--now huge and thick--would pull half-out and then stroke back into her, taking and returning every stroke she gave him in aroused gratitude. 

It was an oddly self-voyeuristic act, but it was incredibly erotic. "Harder," he groaned. "Please, `Kita, harder." 

She allowed his request, taking him deeper and faster--the head of his shaft hitting her incredibly sensitive core hard each time. "Mmmm," she moaned. "You feel good in me, Michael." 

He let out a half-screamed groan at her words. His eyes were still fixed on their place of union. "More, take more of me." He was thrusting up to meet her desperately. 

"Mmmm, I think I will," she agreed. 

He let out another loud groan, their pace increasing. "Yes . . . yes." 

Her hands came to his waist, and she rode him deeper. "You like that?" 

He screamed. "Yes! Yes!" He was thrusting back at her insanely. "Please, more." 

She took long strokes on him--hitting the head of his shaft roughly each time, striking the limits of her core with ever-increasing pressure. She felt him along every millimeter of her inner walls. "More?" 

He screamed once more. "Yes! Yes!" he begged again. His hips were raised from the bed--holding himself up to her, as she slid herself over his throbbing length, every stroke insane. 

He made a half-choking noise. "More! Harder!" He had given himself up utterly to her will--and was loving every second of it. 

She groaned, holding on to his soft curves, her nails digging into him. "Take it rough," she growled. 

"Oh God! . . . Yes!" he moaned. He couldn't take much more of this. She just felt too damn good. He panted. "Harder!" 

She used his hips as handles to thrust him into herself, as strangled groans escaped from him. She was hitting herself with him very deep. She growled again. 

"Ahhhh," he moaned, not able to take much more. His whole shaft was almost trembling with need--half a second away from almost devastating release. 

She pulled him into herself three more times, each thrust going deeper than the last--holding him very deep on the last one. Her nails sunk into his flesh. 

They both panted, caught in each other's eyes; they were both binding their souls tightly together in an act of total will--their need to be one shuddering through them. Then, they gave one more rotating, deep thrust, and Nikita leaned forward to sink her teeth into the curve where his neck met his shoulder--her head held close by the bonds of his arm; she dug her fingers into his curves. 

They both jerked against each other. She groaned, her teeth marking him. 

He screamed. Her walls pulled him incredibly tight-unspeakably deep within her, while his shaft spasmed wildly, throbbing its release deep inside her. 

"`Ki-ta," he moaned throatily. 

She let go of his neck and groaned, running her tongue over it. "Michael," she moaned. 

She kissed his neck and then leaned up to help rip his hands free. His now-unbound arms circled her immediately, clinging to her, holding her to him. 

"`Kita," he whispered huskily. He rolled them both to the side, her legs wrapping around him, as he rode out his little convulsive thrusts against her. 

She moaned. "Michael, I love you," she whispered in his ear. 

He held her head close to him, his eyes closed. "Ki-ta," he breathed. 

They were lost in that world of intimate ecstasy for quite some time. Their souls seemed to have become part of one another. 

As their breathing finally returned to normal, they continued to hold each other, needing no more words to show their emotions. And, by the time sleep overcame them, they had realized--in complete contentment--that no dream would ever match this. . . . Some realities were just too beautiful. 

************ 

It was the second morning in a row that he had awoken in Nikita's arms. Michael smiled happily, kissing the side of her face. . . . There was nothing more wonderful than this. 

He had rolled her back over on top of him last night, once he had recovered enough--had pulled the sheets on top of them, as she nuzzled his chest, falling quickly asleep. He looked down at her. He loved that their intimacy made her so peaceful--that it took away the demons which too often tormented her dreams; he remembered too many nights they had spent sleeping near each other on missions—when he had seen her tossing, as her nightmares took hold of her--had seen her trying to escape some enemy only she was aware of. . . . He had often wondered if it had been himself she was running from--but she never told him her fears. 

He sighed and ran his hand over her hair, kissing the top of her head. He had wanted so often, on those nights, to go to her and hold her--to rock her gently, like a parent comforting a frightened child, telling her everything would be alright. . . . He hated that, too often, everything wasn't. 

He shook his head slightly, still kissing the top of hers. He wanted their lives to always be intertwined in the same way their bodies had been for the last day--in an unspoken, completely accepted, intimacy--in a combination of soul-stirring passion and soul-comforting peace. It made him angry that they would once again have to return to the hell which was Section--that he would, once more, have to become the monster he had so often been with her. . . . He hated that this fragile moment of peace was simply being "allowed" by their masters--that they were presenting the beautiful woman he loved to him as some kind of twisted present . . . that they were giving her as a gift to try to make up for all of the damage they had wrought to his soul. 

He felt his anger rising and realized something consciously which he had hidden from before. . . . He was no longer entirely the same person he had been for several years; he could feel a--surprising, perhaps even a miraculous, change awakening within him--one his angel alone had wrought. 

That change, he knew--as well, had to do with his relationship to Section. While Nikita had always despised the sick Behavioralist approach Section One took with its operatives, he too was coming to truly resent it. 

It was only at times like this, though, that he could force himself to admit to these emotions--and then only silently. He was tired, however, of being approached with a series of rewards and punishments--of being treated like some sort of trained animal; Nikita was reminding him, more and more--recently, that he was human--that he had a soul. . . . Just for once, he wanted that fact to be respected by them, as he was beginning to learn, in small ways--and usually only for short durations, to respect it himself. 

He sighed once more, his current line of thought depressing him. He knew there was nothing he could do about Section's approach, at the moment . . . if ever. He shook his head. . . . He was beginning, though, to hate that fact to an inexpressible degree. 

He looked down at Nikita's peaceful, sleeping form, and his mind switched tracks. He knew that--if he was being granted a small miracle by them, then he should learn to appreciate it; he should take this chance to spend time with her and fulfill it--should enjoy it in all the ways they had both dreamed of. . . . If nothing else, when all of this was over, he wanted to regret nothing--to be able to remember no time during their idyll when he had avoided telling her the truth. He wanted to be left open to both her spiritual and physical gaze. . . . If this was all they would ever have, he would live in and treasure every small moment of it; he would make certain that it was the most beautiful time of either of their lives. 

This meant, of course, that he was going to allow himself to become what he had never truly been before--human. He was going to enjoy laughing with her, talking with her--was going to enjoy watching her--in silence, in sleep, and in ecstasy. He would be--for just a little while--the man he had *always* wanted to be for her, the one she had always, somehow, seen in him--even when he had been convinced that that person didn't exist. . . . He would, he was determined, play out in full the small fantasy world they were both helping to create. 

Nikita stirred in her sleep and sighed, beginning to wake. He wondered, briefly, how long they would be allowed to stay together like this--how long Section had plotted out as the appropriate amount of time for his emotional rehabilitation. 

As he heard her moan, however--as she pleasantly returned to consciousness, he decided that it was best not to think about it. . . . The trick to fulfilling this time together would be to allow themselves to enjoy every moment as it came. 

He stroked her temple, as she was waking, and kissed the top of her head. Of course, he realized, they had been doing a pretty good job of this already; they had made love three different times yesterday--all of the experiences precious and treasured. 

Whether they continued in this sort of pattern or not, however, was completely irrelevant to him. . . . There were so many things he wanted to do with her; making love was only one of them. 

She awoke finally, her subconscious recognizing him before her conscious mind kicked in. "Michael," she whispered. 

He shuddered a little. . . . If she continued to say his name like that, though, they may never get out of bed. He kissed her hair again. "Good morning." 

She opened her eyes, still sleepy. "What time is it?" 

He looked around; he hadn't actually gotten an alarm clock yet. . . . It wasn't usually something he needed. It was only with her, after all, that he truly slept. Otherwise, it was simply a matter of marking time until he needed to go in--sleeping for a few minutes or an hour, when he could--which was, most often, rare. 

He looked at the sunlight coming in at one of his windows. "Around 10, maybe." 

Her eyes opened a little wider, as she looked up at him. "I don't usually sleep this late." 

He smiled. "Neither do I." 

They were silent for a minute, each understanding why they were suddenly capable of such--for them--profound rest. Nikita kissed him lightly. "So, what are we doing today?" She understood--happily--that Michael had no intention of letting her go home, . . . and she had no intention of leaving him. 

He stroked her cheek, smiling at her. "We could start with some breakfast." 

She smiled back. "I think I can handle that." She started to get up, pulling her body away from his--disuniting them with a sigh. 

He stopped her quickly, though--drawing her away from her intentions, shaking his head. One of his most tormenting fantasies was of being able to take care of her; he had no desire to let her do the work now. "*I'll* get breakfast." 

They were sitting up finally; she stroked her hand under his jaw. "Don't like my cooking?" she teased. 

His eyes glowed at her warmly. He leaned in to kiss her--softly and deeply. She groaned when he pulled back. "I like it fine," he smiled, intimations of their previous day's activities in his voice. 

She responded with a small smirk. 

He ran his hand down her cheek, wanting to marginally explain his intentions. "I want to make you something, but it will take awhile." 

Her eyes were bright and curious. "For breakfast?" 

"No, for supper." He smiled. "Breakfast and lunch will be small." 

She nodded, confused but agreeing with his plan--wondering where he was heading. "Okay." 

He kissed her once more and then pulled back. "Go take a shower. Breakfast will be done when you get out." 

She pouted a little. "I have to take it alone?" 

He smiled heatedly back at her. "This time." He traced a finger down her neck, stopping himself before it went further. "Go, or we'll never get this day started." 

She wasn't entirely sure that would be a bad thing, considering how yesterday had gone, but she agreed; they did need to eat sometime, after all. She smiled at him and pulled him into one more warm, deep kiss before breaking away to go to the shower. 

Michael groaned, from the kiss and its aftermath: her walk to the bathroom. He shook his head slightly; the woman could arouse the dead. . . . After all, he was proof of that. 

He watched her walk, beautiful in her nakedness. He sighed. He loved that she didn't bother to cover herself, at these times--loved how completely comfortable they were in each other's presence. 

He continued to watch her, until she disappeared from his view. He knew he really should be more careful with her. They had been making love with such abandon lately that he knew she probably needed a little time to recuperate. . . . But he really didn't want to give it to her. He simply enjoyed being with her--being inside her--too much. 

He understood, however, that if he didn't stop things, she wouldn't. He knew she would utterly ignore her own physical well-being for the chance to be with him. 

He didn't understand her need for him, but he knew that he--in return --would do exactly the same with her. However, this--to him--made sense. . . . After all, she was everything beautiful and arousing--was the very substance from which love was created. He, though--he was nothing, was a demon she had mistakenly aided. . . . There could never be another way to view their lives. 

He sighed slightly. He knew he was a demon, however, who couldn't let her go--who couldn't even consider it; he needed her more desperately than there were concepts for. He didn't want to spend even a single day without her, in this or any other lifetime. . . . No matter what happened to them, there was no place she could ever go that he wouldn't try to follow. 

Maybe, too, he decided, it would be better to just allow himself to enjoy their time together--for however long they had. He knew--in spite of whatever perverse reason she had for needing a soul as empty as his--that he had hurt her before by turning her away; he didn't want to repeat that mistake again. . . . He understood, as well, that their time together here really *was* too short to be overly cautious. 

It was a good thing, really, he thought--not for the first time—that Section had a general birth control plan for its female operatives. For the men, they simply expected them either to use condoms or not to care--which most didn't. They were already officially dead, anyway; they weren't exactly fearing paternity suits. 

He understood, of course, that the fact that he and Nikita had been having unprotected sex was not--to put it mildly--wise, even if pregnancy wasn't really an issue for them; their sexual histories, after all, to say the least, were checkered. Although he had been able to use condoms with most of his targets--claiming to be worried about their safety, which had only been partly true--there were still enough times that he hadn't to cause him concern. 

He knew he *should* worry, too, at least a little--knew they would be better off, if he did. . . . He supposed, though, that he had become a little numb to such possibilities; in fact, after spending most of his life dodging bullets almost daily, disease--unwisely--tended to become less fearsome. 

It wasn't his own safety, however, which concerned him here. If he were exposed to something deadly from Nikita, he would welcome it; he wasn't going to let her die or suffer alone. . . . It was only with her that his concern lay. 

He sighed, shaking his head. He supposed they were being stupid, but it would probably have to stay that way. Their time together—their time alive--was simply too short. . . . Maybe, though, he decided, he would allow Nikita to choose for herself later. 

He stood up, beginning to strip the mattress of its sheets, forcing himself to move along. If he didn't get started with cooking soon, he wouldn't have anything ready for her. 

************ 

By the time Nikita emerged from her shower, her hair toweled off and vaguely untangled--beginning to dry on its own, she found her breakfast waiting--her plate on a blanket on the floor next to Michael's-almost like a picnic. She was back in the white robe, delaying dressing until after they ate. "I see you stripped the bed," she smiled at him. 

He smiled back at her, as she sat down near him to begin her meal. "It needed to be done," he responded, unconsciously slipping into his Section voice. 

She laughed a little, munching a piece of bacon. "That's the first time I've heard that said about making a bed." 

He laughed silently in return. She always seemed to be able to find something amusing or beautiful in their lives--even at those times when he was convinced there was nothing. 

His humor died slightly, however, as his mind went back to his earlier concern. He watched her eat lovingly for a few more seconds and then looked down at his plate. "`Kita . . ." 

She looked at him seriously, hearing his tone change. "What is it, Michael?" 

He sighed and refocused on her, deciding to approach this issue straight-on. "Would you feel safer, if we used a condom?" 

Her eyes widened; she hadn't been expecting this. "I'm not afraid of getting pregnant," she began. 

He interrupted her. "I know. That's not what I mean." 

She rolled her eyes slightly. Of course he knew; what part of her record didn't he know? 

She thought about it for a minute and looked at him. "Should I worry, Michael?" 

"You said it yourself, yesterday. Neither of us are innocents." His eyes were sad--not regretting the skills he had gained to be able to please her, but wishing that he hadn't had to spend so much of his life with people who had meant nothing to him. He shook his head a little, his eyes serious. "I don't want to take any chances with hurting you." 

She sighed and looked down. "Or with my hurting you?" He was quiet, and she refocused on him to see that his own safety wasn't in his thoughts. She shook her head, finally really focusing on the question. "It would be safer, I know." She paused. "If we were two *normal* people, I'd say yes." 

"And since we aren't?" he prompted. 

She shook her head again. "No." She sighed. "We're so close to death constantly. Maybe I'm foolish, but I want to take this chance to be close to you, without worrying about the consequences." Her voice got softer. "We have to think about them too much, anyway." 

He looked at her sadly, knowing that she had come to the same conclusions that he had. If they were normal, everything would be different, . . . but they weren't. 

He leaned over to her, drawing her closer--his hand on her cheek. He kissed her lovingly and deeply, sealing a silent agreement between them to simply enjoy their fantasy world as much as possible--to refuse to worry about what may come. 

She sighed, as he pulled back. They continued eating quietly, reestablishing their unspoken bond. She did want to say one more thing about this subject, though; she was focusing on her plate. "Michael . . ." He looked up at her, as she refocused on him. "I do love that you asked." Her eyes were very strong. He smiled, and she leaned over to kiss him deeply--showing him her appreciation. 

He groaned and pulled back finally. He really was planning to do something with her today besides making love. 

He held up a piece of bacon to her, and she leaned in to take it in her mouth--taking all of it--about half--down to his fingers, running her tongue over them, as she pulled back. He groaned softly, watching her chew happily--as she enjoyed taking in his reaction. He took the rest of the bacon in his mouth to chew it and shook his head, having finished the rest of his meal. "You're a very dangerous woman, Ni-ki-ta." 

She smiled at him, enjoying his small torment. He rose, obviously a bit aroused, and took his plate back to the kitchen. She watched him with a small chuckle. "Vixen," his voice washed back to her--his back still to her, and her chuckle grew louder. 

He smiled, still turned away. God, he loved her laugh. 

He sighed to himself and began moving around the kitchen, starting to prepare a small lunch for later, while also starting his preparations for dinner. He was attempting to ignore his growing arousal for her. He had always dreamed of being able to cater to her--to fulfill *all* of her needs. Now was his chance, . . . but he had to pull his mind up above the waistband of his pants to accomplish it. 

She finished her breakfast and took her plate over to him. "Anything I can do?" She rubbed his bare shoulder, as she stood behind him. 

He sighed. "Yes. If you keep doing that, there won't be any more meals today." He looked at her with passion in his eyes. 

She spoke sultrily. "Is that a bad thing?" 

His eyes moved along her form, till he swallowed heavily and pulled them away--looking back to his work. "Go get dressed." She didn't leave, still rubbing his shoulder. He shifted a little uncomfortably --his arousal making itself too obvious again. "Please," he added--trying to hide the desperation in his voice. 

Her hand ran lower, massaging his curves; his arousal jumped, springing into full life. He put down the food he was working with and leaned on the counter, closing his eyes--swallowing hard. "Ni-ki-ta," his voice warned. 

She smiled at him. "I can do something about that, Michael," she purred. 

He looked up at her a little desperately, knowing her plan. "I don't want you to." 

One of her hands came in front of him to stroke him lightly. "You don't?" 

His breathing was getting shallow; his eyes were a little afraid. As much--as desperately much--as he wanted to be the object once again of her formidable erotic skills, he didn't want her to make herself servile to him. "Please," he begged. 

She took his hand and led him over to lean against a wall, her eyes softer. Her hands stroked down his body. "I should do something for you, seeing as you're making all our meals." 

His eyes were serious. "I'm not looking for a trade." 

One hand stroked his face, while the other ran lightly over the material of his pants; she answered him without levity. "I know you're not." 

He swallowed. "I'm cooking because I want to. . . . I want to do this for you." 

She smiled. "But that's exactly how I feel." Her hand stroked his arousal harder. "Even breakfast can have a dessert, Michael." 

He let out a small groan, eyes wide. She leaned in to kiss him deeply--arousingly, and he moaned against her lips. 

When she pulled back, she had won; he had given up slightly--wanting her touch. "I'll make it up to you," he moaned. 

She smiled, shrugging her shoulders. "There's no need." She leaned her head down to suckle at a nipple for a second, as he held her to him--groaning, his arousal throbbing strongly. She looked back up at him--smiling, then moved down to her knees--the soft robe she wore cushioning her from the hard floor. "But I'm sure you will," she added finally with a smile. 

He groaned, as she slowly revealed his arousal--her smile growing. "Mmm," she moaned, running her tongue along its side. He groaned again. She could feel that his body was still unnaturally tense. "Let yourself feel," her voice enticed him. He looked at her desperately, and she used the one tactic with him she knew would work. "For me." 

He moaned and leaned his head back against the wall, eyes closed, giving in completely. She smiled, happy to have won him over. 

She began by running just the tip of her tongue up and down the generous length of him, never quite touching the sensitive head. His length jumped in response, wonderfully tortured. 

"`Kita," he moaned in a whisper. 

She put his hands on her head, and he let out a loud groan. She looked up at him, as he focused on her--her eyes commanding gently. "Show me." 

His mouth was open in a groan. "`Kita," he moaned in amazement. She smiled seductively and leaned in to lick the base of his shaft temptingly. He groaned, closing his eyes once more, giving in. 

He led her, as she had asked him to do. He held her first to the base, where she placed hard kisses--to his groaning half-screams; he was overwhelmed--feeling loved, but unworthy of it. Her tongue then encircled him completely--curling around his breadth there. 

He was giving groaning screams, intrigued and aroused by her inventive mouth--holding her to the base; he enjoyed her touch here so much, he didn't want to move on. She closed her mouth as far as she could around the breadth of his base and suckled, her tongue on the vein at the back. 

"Ohh," he moaned. He moved her then to the sac underneath his shaft, and she kissed him--running her tongue over him here, playing with the tightened little balls. He could feel tears coming to his eyes. She suckled against him, her tongue a little rough, and he began bucking against her constantly, his shaft rubbing against her cheek. 

He couldn't wait any longer; she was just too damn erotic. His breathing was ragged. "Please," he moaned, moving her up to the head of his shaft. 

She smiled and took him in, suckling him, and he began to gently ask her to go further. His hands were running through her hair; his head was back, gasping--waiting. 

"Mmm," she moaned. She began a pattern on him, her hand coming up to close around his base, running up to meet her mouth, following it up, as it would then pull strongly up to his tip--tickling him with the end of her tongue before plunging both of them back down on him to begin the pattern anew. 

He let out a choked scream after the first time, and she groaned, becoming a little rougher. Her other hand was caressing and playing with his tightened sac. . . . God, he felt good. She loved how vulnerable he was allowing himself to be to her--how much pleasure he was letting himself receive. 

"More," he moaned. He couldn't believe she would do this for him--wasn't sure why she would, but it felt better than anything he could imagine--short of being inside her sweet core. 

She closed her teeth on him slightly, to his gasp, and he opened his eyes to look down at her. She met his look, as she got faster, sucking a little harder. "Yesssss," he groaned out from his soul. 

She moaned in response and sucked him harder still--her rhythm intense. Her head rubbed against his hands--asking him to continue his soft demands. He grew more aroused, growing in her mouth--bucking against her a little. 

He did as she asked and helped lead her in a pattern on him, stroking her tight little mouth up and down himself--her hand helping to keep his rhythm. . . . He had never seen anything so painfully erotic. 

He didn't usually even let himself fantasize about this, always focusing instead on ways he could please her. . . . That this was obviously one of her fantasies was almost his undoing. 

"Yes," he groaned. He pulled her--willingly--faster, his hands still trying to be gentle. She moaned, complying happily, and drew on him harder. 

He let out a groaning half-scream, his eyes locked to hers. His entire length was so completely aroused, so achingly sensitive. Whenever she did this to him, he lost control quickly; he had little staying power, when she gave herself up to him this thoroughly. 

Her teeth ran over him lightly and she followed it with a hard stroke. He trembled, on the edge--heart pounding. He saw a smile in her eyes--her enjoyment radiating from her. . . . It was too much for him. He let out a strangled scream and held her on him gently, pulling her back just enough each time, as he thrust convulsively into her mouth--losing himself completely. 

She moaned and closed her eyes briefly before looking back up to him. He tasted wonderful. She swallowed the warmth of his release happily and then continued to hold him in her beautiful mouth, until he was spent. 

She loved this. She loved the deep, overwhelming release she could give him. She loved seeing his eyes when he came--as they gave up his soul to her. . . . . She loved that she could do this to him--that she could make the stoic, Section superman a trembling, orgasmic collection of enticed and completed needs; his soul was entirely hers--was entirely open for her in-depth and utterly unhurried future discovery. 

His eyes had closed by the time she let him go. She licked her lips and kissed the side of his face; she thoroughly enjoyed being able to leave him like this--enjoyed even more that there would probably be a reckoning later on. . . . She couldn't wait to see what it would be. 

For now, though, it was more than enough to have left him speechless. She smiled. "Thanks for breakfast, Michael," she whispered to him, and then left him to sink down the wall, unable to stand, while she moved off with a slightly smug smile to get dressed. 

************* 

Michael was quiet for quite some time after Nikita's little surprise; he was still a little incapable of speech. He would simply watch her lovingly, while she smiled knowingly at him. 

He had finally managed, when she had left him there, to pull himself together enough to stand up; even that had taken an effort. He had, semi-dazedly, finished making a few early preparations for lunch and supper and then left to take his own shower, his body still warm and incredibly content--if a bit overwhelmed--from his recent pleasure. 

Nikita, meanwhile, had gone to get dressed with a smile on her face. She *loved* that she could please Michael so thoroughly; it made her a little egotistical--a little full of herself--that she could bring such an overwhelming reaction forth from a man who usually wouldn't allow himself emotions. She loved that she could make him groan in pleasure--loved that the screams of fulfillment she heard from him were hers to give. 

She had gotten dressed with their current, wonderful vacation in mind. She had first found some sheets and had lovingly made their bed; then she had lain out the clothes Michael had ordered for her yesterday. They weren't hand-picked, of course--they couldn't be, but there was a wide variety, all very nice. 

She ended up picking a softly-materialed black dress which had several large buttons up the front. She put it on--leaving it open enough to be slightly suggestive but not enough to be truly obvious--and then found a mirror; she was quite pleased with the result. It wasn't tight, but it clung to her curves with just the sort of suggestive appeal she wanted at the moment. Mmm, yes . . . this would do nicely. 

She ended up, as well, deciding to wear it without any underwear. Both this decision--and the one to wear a dress at all--were dictated by the fantasy world they were currently inhabiting--the one they had been allowed to create. Not only were these choices more comfortable for her, considering the hard use some of her parts had had yesterday, but they also provided more . . . opportunities should things take the path she hoped they would. 

Michael had showered and dressed, choosing his usual black attire--minus the ubiquitous jacket; he seemed, however, much more comfortable in it this time, somehow--an impression possibly helped by the fact that he was barefoot. He had gone back to the kitchen then to continue his work, and--by 12:30, he had a couple of small salads waiting for them, which they once again ate on the blanket on his floor. 

He watched her, as she began to eat. "Well?" 

"It's wonderful," she smiled. She looked down at it, though, a little disappointed. "But there's not much of it." 

He smiled--loving her all the more; her healthy appetite--for many things--aroused him endlessly. "We're saving room for supper." 

She sniffed a bit at the wonderful scent coming from the kitchen, looking intrigued--and hungry. "What is it?" 

He smiled, looking down. 

"Do I have to wait and see?" she wondered. 

"Yes," he murmured, smiling, his eyes focused on his food. He looked back up at her. 

She smiled, in a wonderful humor. "And after all I've done for you." 

He laughed a little, trying to control the circulation of his blood. "There will be a pay back, Ni-ki-ta," he smiled. 

Her eyes glowed at him. "I hope so," she thought to herself before attacking her small salad with gusto. 

She spent the rest of the day happily--just watching him move through his kitchen, cooking and preparing. From time to time, he would look up at her and smile, and her heart would contract slightly from love. 

He was enjoying himself cooking for her--was working all day to prepare one meal. She could see his happiness in every move, his contentment from being allowed to fulfill this small fantasy. She sighed. He was so beautiful. . . God, she loved him. 

By the time supper was ready, she was starving, even though it had only really been a little over 4 hours since lunch. . . . That, though, was just as he had hoped. 

He served her the appetizer first--artichoke stuffed with crab meat in a wonderful sauce. At the first bite, she made a noise so seductive it was practically his undoing. He smiled broadly. "` you like it?" The first word disappeared, swallowed by his desire and his thickening accent. 

She rolled the wonderful concoction around in her mouth and then took off another leaf of the artichoke--savoring it and the crab's mingled flavors before answering. Her voice was heavy--practically aroused. "Yes." 

He smiled at her, having to remind himself that he was supposed to be eating, as well. He was receiving so much joy just from watching her that it could be hard to remember such details. He sighed, trying to push back his desire. . . As much as he was enjoying this, it was going to be a long meal. 

He followed this preliminary course with two more--Coquilles St. Jacques served alongside a medley of fresh vegetables in another wonderful sauce and--for dessert--Baked Alaska. . . . It was, admittedly, a bit of an eclectic meal, but it was one he was sure would please her. 

He was right, as well. Each new course was accompanied by Nikita's almost sexual noises of pleasure. 

When they were done with the last one, she looked up at him and smiled contentedly. "That was," she paused--looking for a word that would begin to express her feelings, "astonishing." 

"Good," he smiled warmly. He leaned over to her and gave her a sweet, deep kiss. 

She groaned, once he broke away and rose to clear their plates. "So, what are we doing now?" 

He came back over and took out a cd player he had also had delivered the day before. He put in a disc and then went back to her--joining her on the blanket they had turned into their table. He put his back to the wall and then pulled her back toward himself, propping her head on his chest, his arms around her. "Digesting," he murmured. He kissed her hair twice. 

"Mmm," she murmured back. God, she should be lucky enough to digest every meal this way. 

They sat there for some time, listening to the soft music, saying nothing--simply holding onto each other and just . . . being. Eventually, though, the sheer peace of it overcame them, and they fell asleep, curled on their sides, spoon-fashion--Michael's arms still around her. 

It was about an hour and a half later that she woke to see him coming back into the room. He had stopped the cd, which had already played through completely once. He kissed her, as she wandered off to the other room. 

When she returned, however, the enchanting spell of the night was broken; she found a new cd playing--one she remembered a little too well, one she had thrown out her copy of a long time ago. . . . It was the music he had started to seduce her to, when he was trying to keep her from leaving with Eric. 

She stopped dead. "Why?" she asked, her eyes tormented. She had been loving this time so much, up to now. 

He looked at her with a plea for patience in his eyes and sighed, trying to prepare himself to explain. "You've helped me to create some wonderful new memories in a place I thought would always signify pain, Nikita." He swallowed slightly. "I want the chance to take away some of your pain, as well . . . the pain I caused." 

She was breathing heavily--a little afraid, too many memories assaulting her. He approached her slowly. "I know I hurt you," he said softly. "I know I can't make that go away--I can't make that right." He sighed. "I don't blame you if you hate me for it." He was getting very close to her now. "But I want you to know that I," he swallowed--somehow the word was easier to say in the past tense, "loved you, even then." 

He shook his head, as he reached her--seeing the fear of betrayal in her eyes; he continued to explain. "Even as I tried to tell myself that you were just another target, I knew it was a lie. You *never* were." He was standing a breath away now. "You never could be." 

She didn't say anything; there was still just so much pain. He went on, needing her to know it all. "It was me who was seduced that night, Nikita. I may have been trying to take control, but it was me who was lost." He sighed, stroking her cheek lightly, brushing away a lone tear; his eyes were terribly sad. "From that first kiss you gave me that day," he shook his head, "my heart broke. There was no more denial--as much as I may have pretended with myself." 

His voice got much softer, as he tried to finish telling her this simple truth. "You took hold of my heart from the first moment I saw you," he sighed quietly, "maybe even before. But it was that day in your apartment that I realized in my soul that everyone else--*everyone* before you had simply been an illusion." 

The tears in her eyes overpowered her; she closed them, and the drops rolled down onto her cheeks. She didn't want to forgive him this--knew that to open herself to him that much would be dangerous. 

He stroked another tear off her cheek, his voice breathy from pain. "I'm not asking you to forgive, Nikita," he whispered, reading her thoughts. "I just want you to let me try to help put it behind us--for just a few hours, a few days. . . . I just want you to let me love you--for however long we have here--as though I'd never hurt you at all. . .as though I were always the man you need me to be." 

She looked back up at him, the tears flowing freely now. "Michael . . ." 

He interrupted her. "Just let me love you as you deserve . . . like I've wanted to for so long." He sighed. "That's all I ask." 

She saw the look in his eyes, felt the absolute truth of his words in her heart. She knew this was real--despite all the lies and pain of the past. 

She couldn't forgive, though--knew that to do so would make his next manipulation, after the end of their idyll, too easy--might even, she feared, cause him to forget, in the future, that he shouldn't cause her pain. . . . But--for right now--things were different; their past might be worked beyond. For now, she would let him try to heal her. 

"Hold me, Michael," she whispered, swallowing heavily. "Please." 

He drew her in toward himself and put his cheek on the top of her head, holding her close. He was willing her to draw from him the strength she needed to move past the pain he had given her--was desperate to try to help her heal the wounds of their past . . . the ones he had created. 

They began moving slowly to the song. His hands brushed along her--stroking gently across her back, running over her hair--coming up to stroke the tears from her face. She held him to her, her head over his heart--hearing its insistent beat. 

He had damaged something within her, when they had danced to this song before--or, rather, when she had realized the truth behind that dance. He had made her feel unwanted by using her, had reaffirmed--to her mind--how unloved she had always been. . . . That he had been trying to protect her physical life was immaterial; it was her soul that was in torment. 

"I'm sorry, Nikita," he whispered into her hair, kissing the strands softly. A tear ran down her hair and face from his cheek. "I'm so sorry." 

She started crying harder and held him more tightly to her. The beat of his heart became louder. She could almost hear his thoughts in its rhythm: "I love you, Nikita. . . . I'm sorry; I love you." 

"Michael," she whispered, as some of the pain disappeared. He would never be able to make this, or any of his other terrible manipulations, up to her entirely--in this lifetime, but he *was* helping to heal some of the scars. 

Their souls seemed to flow between them, as they danced--recreating a moment they both remembered in pain and turning it into one with at least some pleasure. Their love--their need for each other began to flow between them, helping to heal the sorrow their past had created. 

She looked up to him finally, as the song ended for about the third time. They had both been crying. She tilted her head up to his, their lips touching softly, and he groaned, before pressing down to possess her mouth completely. Their tears mingled in the kiss, giving it a salty flavor; they both groaned and held each other further in it. 

He kissed her passionately now, crushing his lips to hers--his sorrow spurring his need for her, making him desperate to make her his--to make it up to her. She moaned deep in her throat and held him more tightly to her, needing this proof of his true, loving emotions that the depth of his passion always gave her. 

As the song was beginning again, he broke away from her with a groan and turned off the player--a little roughly. He then stepped back to her, taking a second to look into her eyes, before capturing her lips completely, a little ruthlessly. When she whimpered with need, her hands on his shoulders, he swept her up into his arms and carried her to what had become--in his mind, as well as hers--their bed, as unadorned as it was. When he leaned back from the kiss for one second, approaching the mattress, he whispered huskily, "I have a lot of things to make up to you tonight." 

"Michael," she whispered back breathily. She had every intention of letting him try. 

*********** 

He set her down on the mattress--leaving her sitting up toward him. He knelt in front of her and moved in close--her legs on either side of him; he leaned down, drawing her head up with his hands to kiss her lips. 

After a few, relatively chaste, seconds, he ran his tongue out to trace the soft lines of her mouth, until it opened on her sigh. His tongue invaded it then with a commanding passion--which still had an underlying tenderness. 

He searched her sweetness deeply--relearning all of the soft beauty she held. She let out a little moan--another tear running down to mingle with their entwined tongues--and held him to her desperately. 

His hands, meanwhile, were stroking up her legs, under the soft material of her dress. He felt the smooth skin of her thighs--running his fingers along them in comforting joy. 

When he came up to discover, however, that she was wearing nothing underneath the garment, he groaned loudly. He ran his hands back behind her, pushing her dress further up, to draw her up to him by her soft curves. 

He held her up to his--once again--intense arousal, which was still hidden from her by his clothes. His hips made little rotating thrusts against hers--tormenting her with the thought of what was to come. 

She groaned and bit at his lips slightly. A responding moan rumbled up from his chest, and he set her down on the bed again; his hands came up to the front of her dress and began, rather quickly, unhooking the buttons that held it on her. 

Once she had been revealed to her waist, he pushed the dress back off her shoulders, as she withdrew her arms; it fell to the bed, the bottom of it still hanging around her mid-section, and he leaned her back, lying down with her--resting his heavy arousal against her warm depths for another second. Her moan reverberated through the kiss. 

He let go of her lips with a light stroke of his teeth and continued then to leave wet kisses down the expanse of her body. She was moaning--both from desire and the reassurance his love gave her. 

He came back up to nibble little lines up and down the cords of her neck, as she continued moaning; he set his teeth slightly harder to a sensitive spot just behind one of the cords, and she let out a half-screamed, "Michael!" She was holding on to his shoulders desperately, giving panting moans. 

He groaned against her skin and bit her once more--to the feel of her nails digging into him more strongly through his shirt. He went back up then to kiss her roughly for a second--his tongue a tormenting conqueror. She moaned through it beneath him. 

He leaned back from the kiss finally, eyes flaring, and began to move down her once more. He ran his teeth over her chin for a second, then gave wet kisses down her throat--to her breastbone. He ran the tip of his tongue in a line there--up and down--for several seconds, while she groaned, her hands running up to his hair. 

Finally, he gave in to her unspoken demands and moved to take in the whole of one small breast, suckling its fullness with abandon, while she held him to her. "Michael," she sighed. 

His teeth ran up to--and then over--the tip. He followed this--only a second later--by covering her bud, the pressure of his sweet mouth taking her in to suckle her strongly, his tongue lapping at her; his thumb ran very light circles over its twin. 

She moaned--head back, adoring the feeling of his warm, wet mouth. It was times like these that she forgot all the hurt--could remember only that she was his. She held him to her, her hands stroking through his soft hair, pulling him closer; he obliged her unspoken request again, suckling her more strongly. 

"Ahhh," she moaned. He used one hand to hold her hips back up to him, his mouth still at her breast, and stroked his arousal repeatedly against her core; one hand still tormented the twin bud--pinching it lightly between two fingers, as she held his head to her. 

She was beginning to shake beneath him, holding herself up to his searching mouth, her hips grinding back against his. He had started a pattern--consciously--with his rhythmic rocking, against her nether bud; he could feel her growing wet and warm through the soft material of his pants, and it made his arousal jump wildly in desire. He wanted so badly to simply sink himself deep into her--to take her almost ferociously, to exorcise all of their pain in one desperate, shared act of need. . . . But he wasn't giving in to this desire yet. 

He lowered her back to the bed, his mouth still suckling her hard, and then ran both of his hands down to her soft curves. He pulled her up to him--leaning over her, as he rode against her, the combination of the soft material of his pants and the hard length of him beneath it arousing her nether bud almost unbearably. 

She was rocking against him, still holding his head to her breast, groaning out in need. The hard head of his shaft--still imprisoned--found the tender bud and started to rock against it--rough and relentlessly, while she let out little gasping moans. He drew his teeth over her nipple once, and she bucked against him, crying out loudly. 

He let go of her breast with a stroke of his teeth and a final lick of his tongue. He looked up to see her eyes wide, her mouth gasping. "Michael," she managed. He smiled at her and dropped his head to give a brief nip to the other bud, running his teeth over it strongly for a second--biting it once more and then letting go of it with a final lick of his tongue. 

He looked back up at her and pulled off the shirt he wore, tossing it away. He then bent his head to her core, keeping contact with her eyes all the way. He put one of her hands on his head, giving her control. 

He licked up over her bud repeatedly then, soothing it from its rough treatment of minutes ago. She whimpered and thrust her hips at him unconsciously, the area still incredibly sensitized--the shocks of her release not entirely worn off. 

He began suckling on the bud relentlessly--his tongue teasing it, as she held his head to her, moaning. His mouth became relentless, suckling the incredibly over-sensitized little bud roughly. 

His arms ran underneath her, between her and the dress which was still attached to her waist, and held onto her soft curves. He held her up to himself, suckling her even harder. 

She was practically weeping. He stopped suckling for an instant and ran some of his rough bristles over her. She bucked against him. When he resumed his suckling a second later, she came with a deeply moaned, "Ahhhhh." 

He suckled there for a few seconds longer, as the crest of her orgasm hit. Then he let go of her with a very light scrape of teeth. She whimpered, the orgasm rising again--reignited by the small touch. 

He moved his hands to her legs for a second to encourage her to wrap them around his head. She did, and his hands went back to her curves, holding her up to him, as he sank his tongue deep into her depths. 

She was whimpering, not entirely over her last release. She held him to her strongly, while he took his time running his tongue up and down each of her walls. She trembled below him. 

He began a pattern on her by applying his skilled tongue dedicatedly to one of her most-sensitive walls, mocking the thrusts his arousal loved to make in her. She was so aroused she could barely stand another second of this erotic torment. 

At the same time, though, she suddenly felt terribly empty. While she loved that he was so desperate to fulfill her--that he wanted to make up to her all the pain he had given, she found herself longing for the taste of him, for the wonderful feeling of his hard length throbbing in her mouth. 

She moaned loudly, her hands and legs ceasing their pressure on his head. He looked up, anxious, knowing instantly that something was very wrong. "What is it?" His hand caressed her curves softly now, soothing. 

"I want you," she moaned, crying a little. "Please, Michael, . . .please . . . let me taste you." 

He groaned. He hadn't deserved this any of the other times she had done it; he definitely didn't deserve it now--when he was trying to make up all of the sins of his past. 

She saw him vacillating and moaned, in near despair. "Michael, please." She shook her head. "I need you." 

"`Kita," he breathed, wanting to talk her out of this. 

She grabbed him by the shoulders and helped pull him up her body; they both half sat up. Her hand stroked down his chest to rest on his still-imprisoned arousal; it jumped in response, recognizing the only person who would ever be able to understand its secrets--the only one who could ever please it. He moaned. "I need you every bit as much as you do me," she begged. She stroked her hand over him. "Please, Michael, if you love me, give me what we both need." 

He groaned. He would never understand this--could never figure out how an angel like her could ever want him. 

She leaned toward him--turning him around to push him back on the bed--and kissed down his stomach, down the dark line of hair that led to the treasure she sought--the one which waited desperately, aching to surrender to her. She groaned, undoing his pants, beginning to release him. 

He stopped her hands. "`Kita." He was breathing heavily—throbbing even more heavily in need for her, but he was still trying to prevent her. She looked back up at him in such despair, however, that he gave in with a groan, leaning up to capture her mouth, kissing her deeply. 

He looked back at her finally. "Then, we'll both take what we need." 

She smiled and then returned her attention to his need--beginning to unwrap him with all of the glee and gracelessness of a child attacking the paper concealing her gifts on Christmas morning. She revealed him finally and greeted him by leaning down to take him in her mouth—running one long, happy suck up him, to his gasping groan. She looked back up at him, grinning--the metaphorical child having been given the gift of her dreams. 

Watching her erotic abandon made him almost insane. He moved her back off of him quickly and then stood up to remove his pants completely, as she watched him with wonder. 

Several seconds after he was completely uncovered, she finally dragged her eyes back from his huge shaft to meet his gaze. Her words to him were full of love, "You're a beautiful man, Michael." 

He let out a gasping sob in response, not even vaguely feeling the words to be true. . . . God, he would *never* deserve her, but he did love her so completely. 

He returned to her desperately, his love--and his desire to make up for his past sins--spurring his passion even further. He kissed her in a passion, removing her dress from her completely with one hand. The kiss was deep and nearly fierce; he needed to taste her more than he could stand. 

She drew back from him, needing him every bit as much, and they began to position themselves on the bed. They lay on their sides toward each other, each of them facing the intimate treasures of their one true partner. Nikita licked the head of his thickened shaft, which so tauntingly bobbed near her lips, and he drew in a gasping breath. "Not yet," he moaned. 

She groaned in response. He was just so tempting, but she tried to restrain herself. 

Michael parted her legs, laying his head on one of her smooth thighs--kissing it, licking it--breathing in her sweet scent. He wrapped his hand around the other one, ensuring that he could hold her open as he needed to, and took in the lovely sight before him. . . . My God, she was beautiful. He breathed a puff of warm air on her--loving every second of the arousal he could give her; she moaned in delighted response. 

Meanwhile, too, Nikita drew one of his thighs above her head and licked along it, biting it for a second, then soothing with her tongue once more. He groaned, "`Kita." 

"Temptress," he thought to himself. 

By mutual and unspoken consent, they both finally lowered their heads to the treasures of the other, Nikita taking his tip in her mouth and rubbing the broad side of her tongue back and forth across that sensitive point lovingly--Michael running his tongue up her quivering bud and then delving himself deep inside her. . . . They both moaned. 

They both also began to understand. This night wasn't about Michael serving Nikita; that had simply ended up reminding her--subconsciously--a bit too much of his previous seduction. No, it was about him opening himself to her . . . about both of them allowing themselves to please and be pleased--about taking joy in the equality of their love. 

They both began their work in earnest now--needing desperately to taste each other--to be allowed to bring each other into an almost painful, flowing arousal. Her rhythm on him was hard, little groans escaping her throat in her pleasure at her sweet work. He, too, was controlling in his thrusts--was running himself roughly up and down one sweet wall, then drinking from her--creating a suction on her in his need. 

They both moaned--from the joy of their own efforts and each other's. It was here, indeed--reveling in these sweet treasures, that they each most clearly understood how the other's needs truly worked. He was reminded, as his tongue ravished her beautiful depths, of her desire--her ravenous need to be filled, to have her soft walls stroked repeatedly, even roughly--her tender, most intimate depths controlled in a pounding rhythm, until her sweet walls purred around her mate. She, too--in her suction on his hard length, saw his desire--knew that he needed her soft depths, needed the comfort of flesh so smooth and perfect to soothe a throbbing erotic ache--knew that he needed to have her tight, wet walls hold onto him--stroking along him, until the ache grew to a pulsing fury and finally released itself into total, explosive fulfillment--once more empty of its aching warmth. 

They each took hold of the other from behind now, using one another's soft curves as handles to pull themselves toward the other ceaselessly. Their rhythm increased in tandem--each incredible stroke of the other on their sensitive, needy parts increasing a hundredfold their desire to fulfill each other. 

Their rhythm became wild, as they pulled each other furiously toward themselves and back again. Michael beat into her wildly, his tongue tormenting her at incredible depths, while Nikita's suction on him left his head spinning--his arousal growing almost painfully in its need. 

They were in the final seconds now, and they both knew it. They began to push their need toward one another, thrusting desperately, their hips moving in tight, intense little rotations of desire. 

Their groans--both for and from each other--grew louder. Had either of them been able to, they would have screamed. 

When they knew that they could no longer hold on, they both increased their actions several times over, as deep, desperate groans arose from them. Michael's tongue hit her most tender inner spot--hard--three times, while Nikita groaned a rough suck up his shaft, scraping her teeth against him lightly--followed by the tight grip of her hand. 

Both of them bucked against each other, overwhelmed, their screams of pleasure lost in their ministrations to one another. Her walls gripped around his tongue, as he danced it deep within her--drinking from her; his shaft thrashed within her suckling mouth, releasing its own treasure, which she joyously shared. 

They were both still moaning several minutes later--their pleasure completing them thoroughly, transcending all past abuses and hurts. Nothing could really compare to the warm, soothing love and the utterly satisfied desire which they each felt connecting their souls. 

They stayed at each other's most tender spots, until they had come down completely; then they finally leaned back, releasing one another. They both just wanted--physically--to collapse on the bed, spent, but they needed--more than sanity--to be able to hold one another face-to-face once again. They managed, therefore--with incredible effort, to sit up. 

They looked at each other with eyes which reflected a desperate love. Then, he pulled her over on top of him, and she fell onto him in a deep kiss. 

They continued the kiss for some time, as she continued to lie on top of him--both of them enjoying this complete contact with the other. Their hands roamed lightly over one another, soothing the strained but happy muscles which had helped join them so frequently these past two days. 

They finally--minutes later--pulled back to look at each other once again, their eyes drinking from one another's souls. She rubbed her forehead over his, and they each spent a few minutes kissing around their beloved's face. 

Finally, with a sigh, she lay her head down on his chest. "Michael," she breathed happily. 

************* 

His heart contracted slightly at the sound of her voice. . . . He loved her so much it made him ache; he held her to him tightly. 

He understood now why they had taken each other as they just had, but he still needed to show her his love alone in some fashion. . . .He still felt the aching desire to prove himself. 

He kissed her hair and called her name to get her attention. She looked up at him curiously, and he smiled quietly. Then, he pulled her gently off of himself. 

She was confused, but she agreed, lying on the bed where he was placing her, stomach down. He leaned down to her side to kiss her once, deeply and softly, and she sighed. 

He pulled back from her and moved around behind her on the bed. She turned her head to the side, trying to see what he was up to. 

He came forward to straddle across her thighs, most of his weight on his knees. "Michael?" she asked, confused. 

He leaned forward to kiss her softly. "Ssh," he whispered, returning her head to her folded arms; he moved her hair over her right shoulder and then began to massage her back, easing all the of tension and strain from her muscles. 

She groaned loudly; his hands were magical, knowing just where and how to touch--when to smooth over her skin and when to be firm. Her back muscles had certainly been much-used the last day or so, not to mention their usual overwork by Section. If they could have made a noise, in fact--right now, they would have been purring. . . . She hoped she didn't start drooling from sheer relaxation. 

He smiled down at her, seeing her entire body relax into his touch. This was something he had always wanted to be able to do for her--had seen her return from missions sore and trying to stretch her aching muscles, but it had never been possible before; it would have compromised them too badly--would have made his feelings for her too obvious. . . . Also, of course, he simply couldn't begin to trust his body to have this kind of proximity to her without making his reaction far too evident. 

In fact, even with its recent, overwhelming release, his shaft was beginning to throb again now. He supposed it made sense, really; it was trying to make up for a lifetime of meaningless and completely unsatisfying--almost numb--usage in only a few days' time. . . . Only Simone, before her, had truly known the secrets of his body--of his heart and mind. . . . But it was only Nikita, he knew, who recognized--who held--the secrets of his soul. 

He tried to choke back a sob, as his hands caressed her. He attempted to focus on searching out her tight, aching muscles and kneading them into willing and happy submission. 

He loved that she responded to him this way, loved that even her body reacted instinctively to his touch. He worked on unknotting what had to be a painful spot, and he saw her bite her lip. "Am I hurting you?" he asked gently. 

She shook her head a little, her eyes closed. "No. That one's just a little sore." 

He slowed his motions, afraid giving up might hurt her more. "Do you want me to stop?" 

"No, please," she opened her eyes, looking back at him. "Go on." 

He rubbed both of his thumbs over the muscle in a rhythm, until the knot finally began to give way. She let out a little groaning sigh. "Yes." 

His arousal, which had already been making itself known again, sprang once more into life at the sound. God, he wanted to connect with his soul once more, wanted to make her say the word she just had again--and not just from soothing her back. He continued massaging, trying to ignore his desire. 

"You're insatiable," she murmured, her eyes glowing back at him warmly. It was hard not to notice when he was aroused. 

His eyes were very serious, needing her to understand. "Only for you." 

"Michael," she whispered, touched--once again--by his honesty. He leaned down to kiss her again, his thumbs rubbing along the spine near the small of her back, all of her other trouble spots already soothed by his touch. She groaned and kissed him more deeply. "God, that feels good," she moaned, breaking from the kiss; she was referring both to his hands and to the hard length of him, rubbing up against her back. 

He moaned and kissed her once again--more deeply, aroused by her words--overcome with a need to be close to her. His hands ran around to her stomach, as he began to lie on top of her. She moaned, and his hands moved up to her breasts, finding the nipples stiff and aching to be touched. She continued kissing him, but took her hands out from under her head, running them down to cover his, holding him to her in her desire--encouraging his touch. 

He groaned; he needed her so badly. He had suddenly felt an aching emptiness--had realized that he had spent almost his entire life without his soul--finding it only in her; he needed--so desperately--to connect with it again. 

His arousal throbbed strongly against her back, and she groaned. He broke the kiss and looked at her; he couldn't even bring forth the right words to ask. 

"Michael . . . yes," she whispered, seeing the look in his eyes. "Please, yes, my love." 

He groaned loudly at her choice of words. "`Kita," he said softly, warningly. He knew he couldn't be gentle right now; his sudden, soul-deep need for her was too intense. 

One hand held his to her breast, begging to be fondled by him. The other she curved back to bring him back into the kiss--one which was now deep and searing. "Please, Michael, yes," she moaned before resuming it. 

He groaned loudly through it. He had to have her, but he was so likely to not be in control of his actions. He pulled his teeth across her lip as he let it go. "You're sure?" His eyes burned at her, warning her what was in store. 

She was burning for him, as well--his desire for her making her insane with need. She wanted--once again--to see the full depths of his hunger for her. 

"Yes," she growled. He still didn't quite move. She caught his lip with her teeth and then pulled back, making sure he saw the look of complete, feral abandon in her eyes. She became crude, trying to goad him into completing them both. "Yes, Michael. . . . fuck me." 

He growled back at her, his desires unleashed by her raw need. "Yes," he rumbled, giving in to their shared, intense need. 

He caught her lips in a brief, searing kiss and then let them go. He began to run small little bites along her back--each followed by a flick of his tongue. She let out a deep groan, and his hands kneaded her breasts--rubbing her nipples between his fingers with just the rough pressure they needed. 

He came up then to set his teeth to the crook of her neck, nibbling and suckling her there, while she moaned, "Yes." His hand ran down beneath her till he reached her nether bud; he stroked it for several seconds, while she rubbed herself against his hand, groaning. 

He growled; her need was making him insane. He reached further down to plunge a finger into her warm, tight depths--making certain she was ready for him again. She whimpered and tried to push herself down on him; her walls were wet, waiting for him. 

She was rotating her hips against his hand and then back against him, making his need rage. He held her open, as he positioned himself--bringing his shaft half-underneath her, ready at her entrance--just against her. 

He held there for a second, breathing heavily--beginning to lose his control. As always, though, he could never understand her need for him, and it made him pause to be certain. 

She growled. "Miiiichaaael!" she roared out. It was a command. 

He returned her growl--the sound reverberating deep in his chest--and gave up on his resistance. He began to push his way into the wonderful, erotic walls he was beginning to learn so well. 

"Uhhhh," she moaned--feeling him begin to fill her. She pushed back against him to beg for more. 

He thrust his throbbing shaft deeper into her, and she gave a groaning scream. "More!" she rumbled. 

His breathing was labored; he didn't want to hold himself back any more. He thrust his hips forward one more time--sinking himself to the base into her. 

She let out a lioness's roar of triumph at recapturing him. He had to consciously force himself to wait for a few seconds--after that, until he was certain she was ready; he was desperate to ravage her. 

"Yessss," she groaned deeply. Her walls tightened around him. It didn't matter that it had only been about 24 hours since he had last been in her this way; she had missed him--had needed him. This was a reunion--bodies that had to mate to reconnect the souls they housed. 

He growled, understanding completely. And, once he felt her adjust to him, he couldn't wait another second; he held onto her shoulders, while he began giving her long, hard, possessive strokes--moving his thickened shaft almost completely in and out of her slick core with every thrust, to her whimpering cries of need. 

Every stroke into her fulfilled him; every one which traveled nearly out of her made him ache to reunite. . . . He knew, tormentingly, that she felt absolutely the same. 

She could feel his huge, hardened length conquering her--his long, powerful thrusts deep and barely controlled. The large, aching tip touched every minute fraction of her wet walls--would connect deep within her with a beautiful, hard thrust, before pulling back and beginning the journey again. 

"More," she moaned. She was addicted to this--wanted him primal and needy. 

He was licking little, possessive lines over her back. Her words, though, spurred his needs even further. He grabbed hold of her hips and began using them to help thrust repeatedly up into her--stroking one of her walls with abandon, striking deep within her achingly-sensitized core. 

"Yes, more!" she pleaded. Her walls were grabbing more tightly around him--begging him for this. 

Oh God--she made him *insane*. He needed to take her--to possess her; he wanted to hear her scream his name in her release, wanted to feel her lose all control, until she was like a little, limp rag doll--supple in his arms. 

He rode her deeper, harder; he wanted her submission. He leaned over to her ear, biting the lobe. "Do you like this?" he whispered in it, his hot breath taunting the tender shell. 

She let out a small gurgling noise in response. Her walls were tightening around him precariously. 

His strokes became wilder--going far deeper. She leaned her head back against him, screaming. 

One of his hands rubbed roughly at her nipple, and her hand came down to cover it--begging for more. "Please," she managed. 

"You like it?" he repeated, getting rougher still--pounding against the depth of her core. 

"Ahhhhh!" she screamed. "Mmmm, ohhhh . . . yes." 

He bit at the cords of her neck roughly, as he rode her deep—grinding into her. His tightened sac was dragging across the bed and pounding up against her rhythmically--seemingly upset that it couldn't join its more fortunate twin. 

"Michael," she whimpered. 

He got a little rougher--perilously deep within her; he wanted to burn her with both his words and his touch. "I like the way you take it, `Kita," he whispered in her ear; she groaned out in abandoned response. One hand started to travel down her stomach, as he bit at her lobe. "I love the way you take me." 

The moving hand found its destination--her nether bud; he stroked it in rhythm with their desperate thrusts--in sync with their loving, needy hearts. His tongue circled around her ear. "Now, please," he pinched the bud, "come for me." He thrust hard, deep inside her. Nikita jerked, and he repeated his actions once more--even harder. 

"Ahhhhh--MICHAAAAEEELLL!" her groaning scream reverberated through her--through them both. 

He held suddenly, completely still. His eyes closed. "Oh God. . . .Yes." His head lowered to her shoulder, and he gave her one more deep, hard thrust before joining her--her shuddering walls rhythmically stroking all the warmth from him. "Yes," he whispered brokenly into her neck. "Yes." 

She continued to hold his arms around her, as they finished riding out their climax together. "Michael," she whispered, too much love in her heart to be able to express her feelings even remotely adequately. 

They stayed like that for awhile, until he realized how uncomfortable she probably was; she hadn't noticed, however. He rolled them both on their sides--holding her spoon-fashion, until he felt her drop off into a deep, peaceful sleep. 

He sighed, closing his eyes, rubbing his face against her hair. Thinking her unable to hear him, he finally allowed himself to tell her the truth of his heart. "I love you, Nikita," he whispered into the night. 

Beside him, a still half-conscious Nikita gave a small, soul-deep smile he didn't see. "I love you, too, Michael," she answered to herself. 

************ 

Michael woke up with his arms around her for the third morning in a row; Nikita was relaxed and soft against him--her breathing even and regular. He sighed from the sheer peace of it. If he were ever fortunate enough to be able to share this with her every day for years--even for decades ("centuries," his mind added definitively), he would never grow tired of the feeling--would *never* take it . . . take her for granted. God had given him an angel, . . . and only the damned or the foolish would underestimate the beauty of such a miracle. 

He had never felt this way before--had never been able to wake every morning feeling peaceful and . . . happy. Even with Simone, there had always been some pressing fear, some mission to divert their attention; he had woken up many mornings, in fact, simply clinging to her desperately--as though she were some charm to protect him from evil spirits. Several times, as well, she had done the same with him. . . . Fear or caution had seemed to overshadow everything in their life together--unless sorrow had risen to take its place. 

He sighed, kissing Nikita's hair--closing his eyes for a second to breathe in its scent. Everything in the world he and his late wife had managed to fight to create together had always had an underlying layer of desperation and despair; they had actually, sometimes, hurt each other in their lovemaking--so insane were they to try to wring from one another the hope necessary to go on. He hid his face in the halo of tossled locks in front of him, his tear running down Nikita's neck. . . . He still wished there could have been some better path for them. 

His beautiful angel stirred from her sleep--woken by the sorrow which had suddenly washed over her from him. "Michael?" she whispered worriedly. She felt his tears on her skin. . . . Oh God. What was wrong? 

She forced him to release her--a very difficult task, since he was clinging to her desperately--and disentangled their bodies, pulling herself away from him enough to be able to roll over to focus on him. He tried to roll away, but she grabbed his arm and held him where he was--her grip threatening to become painful, if he struggled. "What's wrong?" she asked --softly but intently. 

He was almost rolled onto his back now, was looking at the ceiling. "It's nothing," he claimed unconvincingly--the tears still on his cheeks. 

Her hand became softer on his skin, once he gave up trying to leave; she let him finish rolling onto his back. She was half-sitting up, watching him tenderly--stroking his arm gently, soothing the skin she had hurt. "Michael . . .," her soft voice pressed. 

He closed his eyes for a second and then looked at her. He wanted to speak--but he just couldn't; he was tormented by memories of his past, . . . and he felt guilty as hell about bringing them into their small, short-lived fantasy world. 

"Michael," her voice soothed. He had closed his eyes; she leaned over to kiss the tears gently from his cheeks, placing soft kisses on his eyelids. He only began crying harder in response. "Please talk to me," she said quietly. When he didn't, she continued. "What's wrong?" 

He swallowed heavily and finally looked at her; she had gone back to lying beside him, still watching him. Her hand was softly stroking the shoulder near her. He opened his mouth, trying to get his voice to form words, . . . but he just wasn't able to. 

She leaned toward him and kissed him, softly and deeply. He responded despite himself--drawn to her light; his hand now held her cheek. 

They continued the kiss for some minutes, as she tried to give him the strength to tell her about his pain. He managed to draw some rejuvenation from her soul, allowing him to finally stop crying. 

The kiss ended naturally--like a light rain shower disappearing. She drew her thumb over his cheek softly, wiping away the tears. "What's wrong?" she whispered again. She was half-sitting up again, looking at him. 

He sighed, wanting to explain, but not really knowing how to start. "I was thinking about Simone." He half-expected her to pull away—truly expected her to be angry that he had brought the memory of another woman to their bed. 

She didn't, though; she continued stroking his cheek gently, her eyes tender. "What about her?" 

He swallowed heavily, looking deeply at her. "We never had this." 

Her hand stopped moving, her gaze focusing more seriously on him, a little confused. "Never had what?" 

He took her hand and held it in his, still focused on her intently. "This." His eyes searched over her face. "This peace." 

She smiled slightly at him, caressing his hand. "We only have it temporarily, Michael," she reminded him gently. 

"I know; that's not what I mean." His eyes refocused on hers. "We had time off together, Nikita; once or twice, we were given whole weeks off to be alone." He shook his head. "But we were never like this." He leaned up and kissed her--gently, but deeply. 

She groaned and responded to his kiss. She knew he was telling her something else ground-breaking between them, but she still wasn't certain what it was. 

She refocused on him, when he pulled back from the kiss and lay back down. She tried to encourage his words softly by bringing his hand up to kiss it and then continuing to caress it. "What do you mean?" 

His thumb stroked over her palm, as he went on with his explanation quietly. "Even when we were alone, we were never quite . . . whole." He sighed. "It was more like we were searching each other for something." He looked down at their linked hands, swallowing. "I only recently realized why we never found it." 

She took in a breath, almost afraid to understand him--afraid that she was misleading herself. 

He sighed once more and looked back up at her. "I can only say what I'm about to once," he warned her. He paused, drawing strength. "I don't have the courage to do it any more than that." 

He let go of her hand and ran his up to stroke her face, his eyes focusing deeply on her. "I've been looking for you all my life, Nikita." He swallowed. "I knew it from the moment we first . . . met." His eyes were sad, remembering. "I loved Simone dearly; she will always be part of my heart." He shook his head; his thumb stroked over her cheek. "But there's only one person who will ever be in my soul." 

Her eyes were tearing quickly, a few drops running down to hit his hand. "Michael," she breathed. 

He shook his head a little, asking to finish. "I'm not telling you for a reaction, Nikita," he swallowed once more, "and I know I'll never be able to tell you again. But my life began the day you entered it," his eyes grew very serious, "and it will end the day you leave." 

One main thought entered her mind: Four years . . . she had spent over four years wondering whether she were just a game, a plaything—thinking she was only second-best, a fall-back choice to his deceased true love. Now, he was speaking more seriously and honestly than she had ever seen him before, . . . and he was telling her that she had always been the one he loved. 

She closed her eyes, rubbing her face against his hand, her tears wetting him. "Michael." She looked up at him, and told him what she knew to be true. "No matter what--no matter what happens to us in the future," she shook her head, "no matter how much fear or pain, . . . you will always be the one I was made for." 

He closed his eyes, her words reaching into his heart. She was the definition of love to him--even if it was a definition he was still struggling to understand. He looked back at her, eyes pleading. "Let me hold you, Nikita. Please." He drew her toward himself, resting her head on his chest, as she settled herself against him. "Let me hold you." 

"Michael," she murmured, pulling herself close to him, rubbing her cheek over his chest. She kissed his shoulder. "I love you." 

He sighed, as they both swallowed back tears; he kissed her hair softly. Their time together was far too short, but he had managed to tell her what he truly needed to, what he was only fully realizing of late: she was his soul and his sanity; without her, there would have been no reason for him to be born. . . . He didn't deserve an angel, he knew, but he would never let her go. He was bound to her for the rest of eternity--and nothing else which ever happened to him, in any lifetime, could ever make him more grateful. 

They fell asleep again, after that. It was only several hours later that Nikita awoke to find Michael sleeping deeply--holding her to him lovingly but fiercely--as though she were the last shred of his sanity. 

She didn't try to break out of his grasp. She loved being held by him --loved that he needed her so much--that he . . . loved her so much. He had still never quite said those three words to her, when he was completely cognizant of who he was--or when he thought she was awake. She smiled. But he had spent most of the last two days trying to show her. 

She loved him for this--loved that he was opening himself to her and for her, despite the fears drilled into him by his past--and the possible terrors of their future . . . despite the fact, even, that Section might be watching--that their masters might be analyzing every nuance of their love. She loved that he would agree to simply live in the present with her, instead of wasting their precious time together by fruitlessly worrying about what was to come. . . . She could think of no greater testament to his feelings for her--and it all made her love him even more. 

She let herself down on her own promise not to think about the emotional dangers of their future, however--a few seconds later, when she realized once again, with a slight shudder, that Section *would*, indeed, come to torment them again. She knew that these beautiful, soulful moments couldn't last--that the two of them were merely being given this sweet time as a tactic to keep them viable. 

She sighed. She hated that Section saw their deep love only as the outward expression of some shallow sort of lust--as a slightly-inconvenient inclination that their operatives were deluding themselves with. It was useful to their masters only because they could use it to hurt their unwilling servants--to control them, but she knew that they would never allow them to be together permanently, . . . because they could never understand. 

Section, after all, wasn't about love or understanding. She smiled slightly against Michael's chest, as she felt him hold her more tightly in his sleep. God knows--for all they talked about it, they weren't about peace, either. . . . They couldn't understand the simple joys of two people in love; they had to try to attribute their feelings to something physical--to something material . . . to something their soulless, despotic minds could understand. 

She held Michael more closely to her. It didn't matter right now, though--she was determined; she wouldn't let it. They were going to enjoy whatever time they were allowed together, and--when they were forced to return to their painful, empty half-lives once more--they would deal with their future as it came; they would face whatever happened then, without trying to worry about it in advance. 

She sighed and snuggled closer to the man she loved. For now--for however long it might last, he was hers. . . . She was going to accept this small miracle for what it was, therefore; at least this way, once it was over, she would have some perfect memories to support her. . . . After all--by the time they were once again forced to live separately, they would both, for the first time in their lives--she now knew, truly understand love. 

They stayed in bed together, simply holding each other, for quite some time that day. The simple intimacy of their touch was enough to keep them both very happy. 

When they finally did rise, most of the day had passed. They took separate showers, once more, and Michael made them another small lunch, while Nikita lovingly remade their bed. 

Neither of them had bothered to really get dressed yet, though, by the time they finished eating. They just sat together on the blanket they had dined on--she back in the white robe, he in another pair of soft-materialed pants--and watched each other. 

Nikita had her head back against the wall. She was just enjoying examining him; he was such a beautiful man. Just to be able to see him sitting there, taking her in--his lovely, beautifully sculpted chest rising and falling softly--was a joy. 

She sighed. . . . No matter what came after this, she would never regret these days together, if only for the simple joy of not having to try to hide her emotions from him . . . for the wonder of--for once--being able to just be honest with him--and have him, astonishingly, do the same with her in return. 

He smiled at her, watching her sit there in all of her graceless beauty. She had one knee propped up, her robe askew--giving him quite an intriguing view of her treasures. 

He tried not to laugh softly--his eyes still warm. She did have a real tendency to flash people. And, although he knew she had sometimes done it simply to get to him--to torment him slightly for having harmed or hurt her, he had also learned that it was frequently an unconscious gesture--her lack of grace a rather feline quality, like a cat that would strand itself in some ludicrous position, while looking up at any observers like, "So--what do you want?" He smiled more broadly. . . . Her naturalness made him love her all the more. 

"What are you thinking about?" she asked, noting the look of loving amusement on his face. 

"You," he smiled. 

Her smile was both ironic and seductive. "Wanna explain?" 

He shook his head at her, his eyes teasing. "No." 

A slight growl rumbled out from her chest. She liked that he would play with her here, would semi-innocently torment her. It made him so . . . human. She let whatever he was thinking about stay his own, however. "So, do you have any plans for us today?" 

He looked at the sky--which was beginning to darken slightly out their window. "You mean tonight." 

She laughed slightly. "Okay, tonight, then." 

He smiled a bit more deeply, his eyes focusing on her. "I do." His eyes had a slightly serious side to them, though, and she realized that he was probably planning another small trip into their painful, shared past--another attempt at exorcism. "Do you remember the dress you showed me, the other day?" 

Her eyes widened curiously, recalling holding up a dress and wondering whether it would make it through their small sojourn intact. "The short blue one?" 

His eyes sparked a little, thinking of her in it. "Yes." He smiled seductively. "Go put it on." 

Her eyes flashed a warm glow back at him. "What did you have in mind?" she asked huskily. 

"If you only knew . . .," his mind answered silently. 

"We're going out," he told her aloud. 

She was curious again. "Where?" 

His eyes held a little sadness. He stood and offered her his hand. "To a small restaurant at the end of the park." 

Her eyes widened. "Volare's?" She remembered it only too well from her arranged date with him there, the one Petrosian had set up. 

"Yes." 

She swallowed a little and nodded. It was going to be an interesting night. 

*********** 

An hour or more later, they were tucked into a corner table at Volare's. They were both well aware that they had never made it past the bar before. He had taken her home, then, after only a half hour or so--had deposited her in her apartment quietly and left. 

They were both a bit uncomfortable. He tried to break through their stilted silence. "You look wonderful." The short, peacock blue dress complemented her in every way it could; had he handpicked it, it couldn't have been more perfect. Her hair was soft and hanging down naturally; her only make-up hid the various marks he had given her in his enthusiasm the past few days and the, now-very-light, bruises from their last mission. He hadn't even been noticing them the last couple of days--had been too happy just being with her to ruin their time with unpleasant memories. 

It was quite a change from their last visit here, however. Then, she had been overly made up and drinking fairly heavily to try to quell the fears of valentine missions which Petrosian had half-intentionally put in her mind. Those terrors had only disappeared, in fact, when she had seen Michael arrive--when she had realized who her date was with. 

She gave a half-smile down at the table--trying to just be happy to be with him but not totally succeeding, not really taking in his compliment. "Why here, Michael?" 

He sighed. "It seemed like another place to start." 

She looked up. "Another way to work through the past?" 

He nodded. 

She took a deep breath; he had opened up their conversation, had made it possible to talk about their pain again, so she decided to begin their real discussion. "Are you trying to punish me?" It wasn't an accusation, just a question. 

His eyes looked deeply hurt; he shook his head. "No. There's nothing to punish you for." 

She raised an eyebrow at him. 

"I know why you did it," he assured her. 

"Then, why did I?" She wanted to see whether he really understood. 

"Petrosian offered you the one thing no one else in Section did--a chance to control your own destiny." He looked away slightly before refocusing on her. "You were trying to make your own choices." 

She nodded slightly and looked down at the table. He did understand. She changed topics slightly. "Why'd you take me home so quickly that night, Michael?" She refocused on him. 

He sighed. "You were drunk," he stated simply, partly trying to avoid the deeper issues. 

"That was the only reason?" 

He looked away. 

She leaned in a little toward him. "It did make you nervous that I had so much power, didn't it?" 

"I just didn't want to give you another possible reason to side with Petrosian," he said, not really answering her question or making eye contact. 

"Michael," her voice called in low tones, trying to bring him back to the point. 

He sighed deeply, realizing that he had made himself a promise not to lie to her during this time; he really should keep it. He looked back up at her. "Yes. It made me nervous." 

She looked curious. He had certainly had no problem with her taking control the other night--had given in rapturously, in fact; why would it have bothered him then? "Why?" she finally asked aloud. 

He swallowed slightly, interrupted from answering by the arrival of their appetizers. Once the waiter had left and they were relatively isolated again, he tried to answer. "Because I," he paused, swallowing slightly--his voice softer, "I need to protect you." 

She finished quietly swallowing the stuffed mushroom she was eating, her eyes analyzing him. "And you couldn't do that, if I was in control." 

"No." 

She gave a half-smile. She knew just admitting that much was a surrender on his part; she also knew that trying to argue him out of protecting her would be completely useless--as the opposite would be with her. "And you aren't angry with me for what I said then?" 

He knew exactly what she was talking about, remembered her words clearly; when he had asked whether he was under orders to please her, she had at first answered, "Of course," before finally relenting. . . . The words--he knew--had been meant to be teasing, but she would never truly know what they had done to him, how badly they had hurt him; they had opened up so many old wounds, had put him back once again in the position of being Section's prostitute--this time with the one woman he loved as his "client." 

He answered her finally, however. "No." The words had hurt him, yes, but he wasn't angry; she had never intended to cause him pain, had never--fortunately--gone through on her implied threat. 

She speared a mushroom with her fork and blew on it, then held it toward him--her tone now teasing. "Still love me?" 

He closed his eyes for a second, tears in them; in some smaller ways, they had just managed to work past another tormenting pain from their past. He looked back at her from the depths of his soul. "Yes," he said intensely. He leaned forward then, changing the path of the night--eyes seductive, and closed his mouth over the proffered mushroom, drawing it in to taste it. 

My God, she thought. He managed to even make the simple act of eating look incredibly erotic. Her stomach coiled tightly in need; she had to shift herself slightly to keep her arousal from becoming too obvious under the fine bodice of her dress. 

He noticed her reaction, and his eyes became even more heated. Maybe tonight they could once again rewrite their personal history. 

They spent the rest of the evening, once more, making waiters and--this time--even diners nervous. Their looks almost never strayed from one another. While they were aware of their surroundings--being too well-trained not to be--they were simultaneously willfully oblivious to them. 

They fed each other bits of food the entire evening, causing not a few people to squirm, either in arousal or discomfort; the heat and intimacy between the two of them was so strong, after all, that the small gesture was pretty much equivalent to some other couple crashing dishes to the floor and beginning to take each other on the table. . . . Especially since they had only recently seemed almost uncomfortable with each other, as well, the unspoken fire between them now was distracting, to say the least. 

Even those who complained to the management, however, did little about it in the end. Once the waiters told them to complain to the couple on their own, if it bothered them--the two were doing nothing overtly perverse, after all--they tended to shut up. It was obvious--from one look at the pair--that to try to break them up would entail relatively the same dangers as breaking apart two lions who were mating with abandon in the jungle. . . . Once they finally left, there was an intense relief in the restaurant. 

It wasn't yet shared, however, by the couple in question. Their time together in Volare's had simply been a several hours' long building of erotic tension--foreplay without touch or words. By the time they left, they were both practically ready to claw at each other. 

Even the walk back to the car was a torment, although it was only a block or so. At one point, in fact, Nikita simply stopped and looked down a deserted alley they were passing. "It's quiet," she pointed out, her voice husky. 

Michael's pulse rate escalated dangerously. He stroked his fingers down her back--a torment for them both. "I have my own hallway," he reminded her, hurrying her along. The anticipatory shudder she gave in response didn't help him breathe any more normally. 

Getting home was a battle unto itself. It got to the point where they were beginning to eye abandoned buildings. When they passed a seedy motel at one point, she groaned out, "Drive faster." . . . He did. 

They only made it as far as the front hallway of his building, in fact--once they were home and the security quickly engaged--before they began to practically maul each other. It was completely open to the view of anyone passing, of course, but his was fortunately a quiet neighborhood. . . . Anyway, if anyone had stopped to watch, at this point, he probably would have just shot them. 

They kissed ferociously, tongues battling--alternately conqueror and conquered, as he pushed her up against the wall. She pulled off his jacket roughly and discarded it on the floor, then began clawing at his shirt; finally frustrated with any normal method of removal, she just pulled on the material--ripping it violently, pulling it off of him and tossing it to the floor, as well. 

He growled, as her hands clawed at his back--running just-painful-enough lines down it. . . . . God, he loved it when she marked him--loved her feral devotion . . . loved showing her his own. He grabbed her hips in response and began grinding her aroused flesh against his own--tormenting her erotically with the brutal rhythm which was to come. 

The hallway was open to the night, and the air was cold, but neither of them cared or noticed. They were bruising each other's lips with the force of their kisses, each taking turns nipping at the other. 

Michael ran one of his hands under her dress to find her again naked to his touch. He growled and rocked himself more roughly against her arousal--holding her to him by sinking his fingers into her soft curves. 

His other hand moved up her body, as well--leaving a fire in its wake, until it pulled the bodice of the dress down enough to reveal a taut nipple. He let go of her lips with a growl and sank his head to take that tender bud into his mouth, running his teeth along it roughly. 

Nikita moaned hoarsely and wrapped one of her legs around his hips--helping to pull him toward her in a harsh rhythm. Her hand, meanwhile was in his hair--holding his head to her breast. "More," she demanded. 

He gave a hard bite to her nipple, and she groaned out in pleasure. One of his hands came up to reveal the bud's twin, and he rubbed it between his fingers relentlessly. She groaned out again. "Yes! More!" 

He bit her once more--to her pleased groan and ran his mouth back off of her, as he pulled away, his hands going to her back. He looked up at her again, his eyes burning; as much as the cumulative effect on their bodies of their previous days' worth of activities might suggest that they should be a bit softer with each other, neither of them wanted that now. "Do you want me to be gentle?" he asked, eyes burning; he already knew the answer. 

She growled. "Michael, if you're gentle with me, you'll die," she warned. 

His eyes burned at her. If that were true, then he was obviously going to be immortal. "Do what I tell you," he ordered seriously. 

She smiled wickedly. "Am I under orders to please you?" she asked knowingly. 

"No." He nipped at her lips. "You're under my *command*," he ran his tongue over and then bit at a tender spot on her neck, "to be pleased." He looked back at her, his eyes controlling. "Any dereliction of duty will be punished severely." 

She brought one of his hands up to her breast again, needing his rough touch on her delicate flesh. "Then, I might have to disobey a bit." 

His smile was feral. "I'm counting on it." He twisted and pulled at the nipple in just the way he knew she needed. 

Her head went back against the wall--her eyes closed, a deep groan escaping her. "Yes, Michael." She looked back at him. "I'm yours." 

His smile deepened. "Yes. . . . You are." His mouth returned to hers, as he crushed her lips to his--his hand roughly caressing the back of her head, conquering her. She groaned out in joy. 

The reminder of their pain Volare's had provided was making them desperate for one another. They demanded each other's complete surrender--both were the conqueror and the conquered. . . . There would be nothing like gentleness tonight. 

His mouth continued to invade hers roughly, to her happy moans--her hands holding his head to her. His hands, meanwhile, came down to rip apart the top of her dress--leaving her achingly-aroused breasts open to his commanding touch; she moaned through the kiss. 

He pulled back finally, groaning, and began to give large wet kisses down her throat--his tongue hard against her skin, working his way down; she let out little whimpers of need. Once he had reached the now-exposed breasts, he rubbed over them for a second with his thumbs, simply enjoying the feel of their hard tips--of this visible sign of her desire. 

He put his hand on her back then and pulled her up to his mouth, as he suckled one small breast completely. The other hand twisted the nipple of the neglected twin perfectly. 

Nikita let out a groaning scream. She loved giving herself up to him this way--knew her total surrender to him here would only lead to her own intense pleasure. Unlike every other person in her life--including Michael, too frequently--sadly, when they weren't lovers--trust, or the lack thereof, wasn't even an issue now. 

His mouth possessed her nipple commandingly, as her nails grew painful on his head--begging him for more. She was groaning. "Please." 

He ran his teeth over the bud and stood back up to face her briefly--to her dismay, leaving her breast. He wanted yet more from her. "Tell me what you want," he ordered. 

Her eyes widened excitedly. The very idea turned her on. "Yes," she moaned. 

"Yes, what?" he tormented. 

"Yes . . . sir," she responded. She knew everything he did here would be for her; she practically melted down the wall in willing submission. 

He smiled at her, doing nothing. 

She took hold of his shoulders and started to lower him on her--taking up her part of the bargain. Once he was level with her breast again, she moaned out, "Please," her breathing was unsteady, "torment me." She was panting now. "Be rough with me." He didn't move. "Sir," she added. 

A feral grin appeared on his face, and he leaned forward to take her in his teeth, suckling her through them. She let out a series of sobbing groans, her nails hurting his scalp--her mind completely divested to him--and to her own desire. 

In an odd way, Michael was reworking more than one part of their past here. Along with the whole Petrosian incident, he was also--only partly consciously--working on her fear of being controlled by him. For a little while, he was serving her entirely--was her sexual slave--while still being her titular master. . . . It was a combination which worked for them both. 

He was rough with her--as she wanted him to be, his teeth stroking back and forth over the nipple aggressively, biting at her, as she moaned. Part of his mind knew that they would probably both end up regretting the future physical results of this encounter, but he really wasn't listening any more. 

Nikita was whimpering against him by the time he moved away from that breast; her desire burned violently within her. . . . God, he knew how to please her. 

He looked up at her, waiting for her words. "The other one--yes!" she moaned; none of her orders tonight were going to be very coherent. "Rough, please," her eyes burned at him in need. "Sir," she added finally to spur him. 

He growled, as he moved to possess the twin. His teeth held it, while his tongue rubbed roughly back and forth across the tip. 

She was moaning against him, her hands in his hair. He bit her harder, and she groaned before kissing the top of his head. He growled in return, biting her more roughly. "Yes," she moaned in response; her entire body was awash from crashing waves of need. "Sir." 

He rubbed at the nipple roughly with his teeth, insane from her words. Her nails were painful against him, her moans making him increasingly feral. His arousal had been nearly embarrassing at the restaurant and was painful by the time they walked back to the car. Now, it was throbbing dementedly; he half wondered whether any other part of his body still had blood in it. 

His tongue rubbed the tip of the bud roughly again, as one hand moved up her leg; she was whimpering against him. He found some of the evidence of her intense arousal already on one of her smooth thighs, and he groaned. His fingers hovered near her entrance, waiting for her words. 

"Yes!" she moaned again. "Michael touch me." She panted. "Go deep." His fingers started to enter her, and she groaned out further: "Hard." 

Three of his fingers had entered her easily; he could feel her pulsing with need. He stopped his entrance for a second to tickle at an overly-sensitized wall, and she bucked against his hand, groaning. 

He started suckling roughly at her breast, while his hand ran deeper. He moved his arm toward her and ran his fingers further into her; he loved the way the smooth, slick walls clung to him--begging to be stroked. 

He answered their silent plea by beginning to stroke deeply in and out of her. She was moaning constantly. His thumb went up to begin rubbing over the quivering little bud, as she ground her hips against his hand. 

He groaned at the sensation--at the knowledge of her desire. He got faster. Nikita helped form a rhythm with him, holding on tightly to his questing fingers, as she moaned. 

He let go of her nipple and began just stroking the tip of his tongue across it lightly, which was more than enough, at this point, to send warm waves through her--making her ache with desire. Her hips ground faster against his hand--begging for more. 

He got rougher. He was stroking brutally into her, while she moaned out for more. 

His fingers reached further still; he wanted to touch her absolute core--wanted to get closer to where his aching arousal was so fortunate to be able to go. He pushed them deeper and found a dangerously-sensitive spot, which he rubbed with abandon; his thumb, meanwhile, kept up a hard rhythm on her bud. 

She was whimpering--so far beyond thought it was hard to remember to breathe. Her hips were grinding against him desperately--insanely. 

He knew exactly how to touch her. The feeling of his warm, talented fingers stroking against her smooth walls--of his thumb stroking against her bud in just the way it needed made her insane. 

Suddenly, though, everything he did seemed to treble. He bit her nipple, as well, in just the way she needed it most. 

She moaned out a prolonged, "Ahhhhhhh." A deep warmth spread through her--the pleasure sinking into every muscle. He stroked her tender inner spot roughly once more and she screamed, bucking against him. Her walls trembled tightly around his fingers. 

He leaned back and looked at her. "Good," he told her quietly. She moaned, overwhelmed, eyes still closed. 

He moved a finger to tickle one of her trembling walls, and her eyes popped open. She was panting. "Michael," she moaned. 

He grinned at her ferally. He finally withdrew his hand from her and let her watch as he placed it in his mouth, suckling her taste off of his fingers. He ran his tongue in between them in slow licks, and she moaned; her hips were moving unconsciously toward him again, wishing he were closer. 

************ 

He continued making her watch for a few minutes. Her breathing was, once more, very heavy, her chest heaving; her eyes were wide with desire. 

He ran the tip of his tongue over the ends of his fingers for a second. "You taste wonderful, Ni-ki-ta," he whispered huskily to her, his eyes still focusing deeply on her. She moaned once more. 

He finally finished cleaning himself of this small sample of her. He ran the tip of his tongue over his upper lip for a second, cleaning from there, as well. Her eyes were following it in desire. "Do you want to feel that?" he asked. Her desire sparked further, and she nodded--knowing exactly the sort of erotic cataclysm he could create with it. "Good," he informed her. 

He leaned in to run the tip of his tongue down her breastbone--then ripped the dress a little further to allow him plunge to her navel. She started to move to take the dress off and he shook his head. "Keep it on," he ordered quietly. 

She nodded, whimpering--giving in easily, and he ran his tongue into the small well he had been moving toward, flicking the very end of it against her sensitive flesh. She whimpered, holding him to her stomach. 

His little thrusts here sent a jangling fire out through the rest of her body. Her depths felt it; they were hungry for him again. 

His eyes held a fire only for her; they forced her to watch. She did, moaning unconsciously--wondering briefly whether it were possible to die from simple over-arousal. 

The cold air from outside made her nipples ache slightly, but it only added to her desire. She needed him everywhere. She was so sensitized and aroused that he could have touched any part of her, and she would have moaned out in need. "Lower, Michael," she begged. 

She was a goddess--that was all he could think. Her eyes shone with burning, aching desire; her hair fell around her face in beautiful disarray, as she looked down at him. 

She looked so innocent, too, in a certain way--not in some perverse, child-like one, though; there was nothing erotic about children. No, it was her utter ability to receive joy, to take it in and savor it, that held him completely spellbound. 

He needed her--was aching with desire for her alone. He wanted her--wanted this goddess--to moan beneath him, as he worshiped her. He wanted to possess and control her divinity--to give her a release derived solely from his worship, and--in doing so--release himself. 

He moved lower--toward the apex of her spread legs, as his sensual angel had commanded. He had only had a small taste of her ambrosia before. Now, he wanted to revel in it. 

He lifted up her skirt to reveal the golden curls which hid her treasure--the beautiful flower she held at her core . . . the one which could connect their souls. He knew some people thought that it was a man's shaft that controlled pleasure, but he knew they were wrong; it was this--the smooth, trembling, wet walls which were the true source of life and desire. Any lover of women was simply measured by how long they could withstand the erotic pleasures they held within. 

He held her skirt up with his thumbs and pulled her toward himself by her soft curves. She had served him like this too often yesterday; now he was desperate to be the one on his knees--serving her. 

Her hands went to his head--holding on, and he smiled heatedly. Her scent was overwhelming his senses; his arousal seemed to bob in time to the lung-fulls of it he breathed in. He moved in toward her very slowly and finally touched her quivering, anticipatory little bud--the smallest hint of what treasure her flowered depths held. She let out a moan from her soul, pulling him toward her--needing him. 

His mouth closed over her, as he kept eye contact, and he began to suckle her--slowly but strongly. She was trembling, her hips riding unconsciously against him in her need; her eyes presented her soul to him as a gift. 

She was moaning. . . . Dear God, this felt good. His every hard suck on her eager flesh was sending shards of mingled pleasure and desire deep into her. She wanted him never to stop, but she also wanted him to end her torture instantly by finally giving her what she truly needed--the whole length of his long, beautiful shaft inside her. 

She groaned, watching him. His eyes were heated and needy; his hair was tossled from the strokes of her hands. The muscles of his arms tensed and relaxed as he pulled her in a rhythm against him--against his warm, skilled, erotic mouth. 

He not only let her pull him closer, he encouraged it, suckling her more strongly whenever she did. He loved her demands--loved her desires. He wanted to be the only man to ever know them again; he was absolutely certain that he was the only one who could fulfill them. 

He began alternately running the breadth of his tongue over her flesh and then tickling hard against it with the tip. The combination left her shaking; she was running her hands through his hair, playing with it, begging him for more. Her breathing was incredibly erratic, punctuated by little whimpering breaths. 

When he could see in her eyes that she was on the edge, his entire mouth seemed to close on her again--even more completely, trapping her. He then ran his teeth just over her, before stroking her again with his tongue. 

A resounding groan broke from her, and her head fell back to lean against the wall. He did it again and received a strangled cry of desire in return. 

"Miiii-chaael," she moaned. The erotic warmth flowed through her, making her need for him call him to her depths unbearably. 

He gave her no time to recover, running his mouth off of her bud with a hard suck, then entering her deeply with his tongue. Her eyes were closed at the sensation; she was whimpering, holding him to her. Tears were on her cheeks. She was so aroused and so fulfilled at the exact same time. 

They were both partly aware that they were exposed to the world--if anyone came by, but they weren't noticing. It wasn't so much that they were being exhibitionist--Section tended to drive any desire for that particular act out of anyone quickly by sheer overuse; it was more that they simply didn't care. If there was anyone to watch--which there wasn't--let them; this act was completely private, regardless of the surroundings. 

He was leading her seamlessly from orgasm to orgasm. His tongue seemed to fill her trembling walls completely with each stroke; she knew that wasn't really possible, but--God--it felt like it. He loved her with it relentlessly, tormenting the aching walls--making them beg for his domination. 

The tip of his tongue led his assault. It ran completely down one wet wall to beat deep inside her for a second, before stroking back the same way to repeat the pattern again. She was holding him to her mindlessly, so in need she could barely stand it. 

She moaned, and he tilted her hips toward him to move deeper--faster. God, he wanted to eat her alive, at times like this. His shaft was so large now he was afraid he would destroy her with it, when he finally took her. 

Nikita, though, wouldn't have cared. She was lost to a world created by his touch, by the smooth, intense rhythm of his tongue running along her walls. She was thrusting toward him faster and faster, desperate for more. 

He had to end this soon. He had to be in her, had to take her--even if it ended up being both their undoing. 

He stroked her faster, hitting ruthlessly against an inner spot he knew she liked. Nikita was pulling his head on her in a rhythm, absolutely needy for more. 

He pushed himself further up at her and hit the tender spot with all of his force, while he used one hand to twist slightly at her bud. She bucked against him, letting out a short scream, then held utterly still; he repeated the actions even more strongly, to her screaming groan--her walls rippling around him. 

He moaned from his soul and drank deeply from her, closing his eyes. Tears of need and of fulfillment--the joy of having pleased her--ran down his cheeks. He pulled her down further on to him and felt her one final second of internal pull become infinitely stronger. He danced his tongue deep within her, and heard an earth-shattering groan rumble from her. 

That final noise was his undoing. He was going to have her if it killed them both. 

He raised his head from her, as her strangled, deep moans caught in her throat--almost choking her. She was starting to slide down the wall, without his support, the overwhelming pleasure too much for her. 

"No," he murmured authoritatively. "You're not done yet." He caught her, as she was sliding and held her against his body. 

She was completely incapable of speech. Her eyes gave over to him possession of everything she was. 

He took it. He picked her up in his arms, not willing to waste time in letting her try to walk, and bent down briefly to grab his discarded clothes. He then carried her to the elevator and took her upstairs. 

"Mi-chael," she whispered. She breathed in his scent at his shoulder and ran her tongue over it, as she was carried. She loved the way he smelled, could feel it wrapping its way through both her body and soul. 

He let out a low noise, and she gave him a small bite; she may have been exhausted with pleasure, but she still had an overwhelming need to feel him inside her--commanding her. She wanted him wild and uncompromising. 

That was exactly what she got. Once upstairs, he returned her to her feet and tossed his clothes away from him roughly. She managed, somehow, to stand on her own. She could see the near-brutality of his need, and her head swum in desire for him. 

"You're mine," he told her, eyes burning. "You'll do *exactly* what I say." 

"Yes, Michael," she whimpered. She saw his eyes flaming at her, and she added, "Sir"--just to torment him. 

It did. He pulled her to him and kissed her with brutal abandon. His tongue delved deep, searching her mouth--commanding it--just as he had her depths. She whimpered against him, holding him in it. 

When he pulled back, she was gasping, her eyes wild with desire. Her stomach--all of her muscles--were so knotted in need, she was almost in pain. 

His eyes burned her. "You'll be screaming that in a minute," he informed her, and she moaned in willing submission. 

His thumbs scraped down to torment her aching breasts. "Are you ready to follow your orders?" He was in total outer control--which made her need him brutally--made her need desperately to force him to lose that control by commanding her, by leading them both into total ecstasy. 

"Yes, Michael," she moaned. "Sir." 

His eyes burned. "Good." 

He took her by the shoulder and led her over to the room's one chair, which he set against the wall--facing it. He faced her toward its back. "Bend over," he ordered. 

She felt a further frisson of excitement and moaned--following his command, only too happy to do what he said. The back of the chair, fortunately, was just tall enough so that she could do this comfortably. 

He leaned toward her, stroking her skirt up to her waist to reveal the tight little curves behind her. "Mmm," he moaned, as he traced his hand up over them; she thrust them back to meet his touch, moaning. 

He pinched her slightly--to her moan--before moving his hands further up her body, stroking over the lean lines of her back. His thumbs rubbed briefly at her shoulders, and he leaned over her to whisper in her ear teasingly--his voice rough. "You seem tense, Ni-ki-ta." His mouth came down to bite the side of her neck. He whispered at her ear again. "Is there something I can do to help?" He bit the side of her neck again. 

She moaned. "Michael," she cried out, desperate for him. 

He bit her more strongly before releasing her. His hands ran in front of her--down the swath of tender skin revealed by his destruction of her dress. She moaned again. He pinched her nipples slightly. "You feel good." He bit a tender spot on her neck once more--to another of her moans in response. "I like how much you want me." 

"Michael," she moaned out. "Please." . . . God, she needed him. 

He took pity on her by stroking his hands down her arms to put hers on the seat of the chair, his own over them. He rubbed his hidden arousal tauntingly against her from behind. "Do you like this?" he breathed at her ear, his breath hot on it, as he nipped at it lightly. 

She moaned; his abandon to total desire was making her wild. She wanted him at his most brutal--wanted him to control her . . . and then to lose himself. "Michael . . . yes," she moaned. He moved his hands up to stroke at her nipples once more and rubbed his, still hidden, thickened arousal against her. 

God, he felt absolutely huge. She was panting. "How much longer, Michael?" she asked desperately, needing him inside her. 

He nibbled at her ear--her abandon giving him control. "Do you want me that badly?" he breathed against her. 

"Yeeesssss," she moaned. 

"Good," he stated simply. He gave her nipples a last twist--to her moan--and then leaned back to unfasten his pants--finally allowing his tortured arousal its freedom. It broke free to throb near her--knowing its natural partner. 

He heard her groan out in need at the sensation. "Michael, please," she begged. "Please." 

He hated, in a way, that he wanted her so brutally--that he wanted to take her like an animal taking its mate. But he couldn't deny that he did--that the need to fulfill Nikita on the most primitive of levels was singing through his blood. 

He rubbed his, now huge, length against her curves, teasing her, and she moaned. He couldn't deny, either, that she wanted him just as much--that, right now, she needed to be completely possessed by him. 

His heart was beating wildly, his shaft throbbing. He wanted to tease her by waiting just a bit more, however, before he gave her what they both needed. 

Oh, God, she couldn't stand the wait any longer. She ached to have him inside her--to be filled to her capacity and beyond. She needed him to possess her--to claim her, to mate with her ruthlessly. 

He leaned over to her ear again, grinding himself against her curves--hearing her moans. "What do you want?" 

She gasped in need. "You, Michael, please!" 

"How?" he demanded. 

She groaned. "Take me," her voice pleaded, in a guttural whisper. "Please. Be ruthless," she moaned. 

He growled in her ear. "I am ruthless, remember?" he said, reminding her of a conversation they had had around her first mission as a team leader. "I like it, right?" 

She groaned desperately. God, she hoped so. "Yes! Now!!" 

"Yes," he groaned. He leaned back from her. "Get ready for me," he ordered, and she spread her legs eagerly. He ran one hand between them from behind and stroked it against her for a minute, to her needy scream. Then, he positioned himself and held on to her hips. 

************* "Ohhhhh," she groaned out, as he pushed just the head inside of her. God, he was *huge* tonight. If she had had any sanity left, she would have worried about being hurt. 

Right now, though, all she was thinking about was her raging need for him. She didn't give a damn about consequences anymore. . . . She could relearn how to walk tomorrow. 

He was standing up behind her, holding on to her hips. His eyes were closed. Even just having the tip of his shaft inside her felt almost too good to bear. 

He wanted to be in her with a fierce need which bordered on dementia. But he still just couldn't hurt her; he couldn't shatter his own heart by causing her a single moment of pain. 

"Michael, *please*," she moaned, pushing her hips back toward him. 

He started up a mantra in his head: "I have to go slow; I have to go slow; I have to go slow . . ." It was the only way to keep from destroying her before they had even begun. 

Oh God, she would die without him now. Her inner walls were wet and throbbing in need. 

He finally gave her a little more, and she groaned out in pleasure. He sank further into her in response to her need, stretching her tight with his entrance. She panted. "Yes," her husky voice growled. 

He stroked out a little bit and then sank further in. He was remolding her tight walls with every inch; they were clinging to him desperately. 

He was crying a little from need and pleasure. He repeated his last action, giving her a little more and almost screamed from love and desire when she moaned out, "Mooooore." 

His heart contracted in desperate love, as he gave her another huge inch. Her panting groans encouraged him further, and he gave her one more inch, almost reaching her core. 

She was letting out inhuman little cries of need. Nothing had *ever* felt this good before. She was insane to be filled by him--was insane to surround him completely, even though part of her mind was beginning to wonder whether that would be possible tonight. 

"Michael," she moaned out, getting his attention. 

He leaned forward to her, his arms around her, kissing over her cheek. "Yes?" He needed to complete this, but he was also desperate to have her permission again. 

She turned her head to kiss him deeply, desperately. "Promise me . . .," she panted, looking back at him after the kiss. 

"Anything," he moaned, accepting another kiss in need. 

She drew back to look at him again, her eyes desperate. "Promise me you'll give me all of yourself tonight." 

"`Kita . . ." he moaned quietly. 

"No," she broke him off and panted for a second; God, he felt so good. "I need you more than life right now. I have to have you fill me." He watched her desperately. "For once, just for once, I can't stand any compromises. . . . Please." Her eyes focused on his soul. 

He moaned out in response, seeing the utter truth of her emotions. . . . He had his permission. 

He reached back--still leaning over her--and took hold of her hips again, tilting them back toward himself. Then, watching her, he pushed himself in--inch by huge, uncompromising inch. 

"Yes," she mouthed, when she saw that he was about to hold back--that he was afraid of stretching her beyond her limits. He groaned in response and gave her one final, hard thrust--sinking himself into her completely. 

They both gasped and closed their eyes at that point, their heads resting together, their breathing heavy. It was, so far, their most physically intimate union. 

He started to kiss her face, as he felt her adjust enough to him to start stroking her. She was so tight that every stroke was a warm, wet fire. 

She groaned from the very first thrust. He felt like he was stroking straight into her heart and soul; her desire for him flared, making her incredibly, desperately needy. "Oh God, Michael," she groaned out from her soul. "Please, please take me." She panted, as a stroke went further in. "Please, take me hard." 

He groaned desperately. She could make him insane. Her smooth walls clung to him in the most perfect way. 

Her words, though, were truly his undoing. He needed her desperately, as well, and--here she was--begging for him in return; it was more than he could stand. "You want it hard?" he whispered temptingly in her ear. 

She groaned from deep in her throat. "Oh, yes!" She panted. "God, yes," she moaned, her fingers white against the seat of the chair. She looked at him, showing him the total truth of her words. 

He growled. "You asked for it," he warned, and he felt himself flex within her when she groaned. 

"Yes, Michael, yes!" 

He bit her shoulder briefly--running his teeth over her--and stood back up. His original intention was back; he wanted to ravish her--to turn her into a lioness begging for her wild mate. 

He took hold of her hips and started their rhythm in earnest with small strokes, before beginning to move them longer. She moaned. "Yes! Please!" Oh God, he needed her. He could feel himself becoming feral again. He moved a stroke deeper, to her aroused groan. "How do you want it?" he asked, giving her a huge stroke. 

She moaned. Every incredible thrust touched the whole of her depths, which clasped around him in desperate need--making all of the strokes even more intense. . . . God, she needed him wild. "Deep. . . . Rough. . . . Hard," she panted at him. 

He growled and began stroking into her even more strongly. "Are you sure?" 

"Ohhhhh," she panted. "Oh, yes!" His strokes were wonderfully long--filling her deep each time and then pulling almost completely back out. "Please, more." 

He needed her surrender. He started teasing her with his shaft, giving her short little rotating thrusts--not quite going as deep as he knew she wanted. "Are you sure?" 

She let out little groans of need at his movements. She wanted his head to be deep within her--wanted it to pummel her core, to give her its rough, hard fire. "Michael--PLEASE!" 

He growled. "Good answer." 

He began going deeper--every stroke rough and hard. Her head was back, her back arched, her hips angled toward him--wanting to take everything he had to give. 

She was a slave to the sweet fire he created within her. "Please, Michael," she panted, "oh, please." She let out another groan. "Please make it rough. . . . I want you rough." 

He moved a stroke deeper--connecting with her strongly--to her pleased howl. "You've never seen me rough," he warned. 

"Oh--oh God," she moaned, wanting even more of his hard treatment; he was making her depths burn in the most incredibly erotic way. "Then teach me. . . . Please, teach me." 

Her total abandonment to him made him insane. He leaned over her again, moving her hair off one shoulder, and started to bite along it. His strokes became brutally rough--hitting her very deep. "You'll learn," he murmured. 

She was letting out small, groaning, "Uh"s with each stroke. Her hips were meeting him in his insane rhythm. "More," she begged. 

He moaned and bit her skin harder--his tongue running over it afterward, to her pleased groan. His strokes started going even deeper--never moving very far out of her. He put a hand on her hip to help him hit her even harder each time. 

She was whimpering constantly. Her core was so precariously delicate that she could barely stand it. Each stroke seemed to take over her entire body. 

She was clasped around him tightly. Her legs were spread wide, as she was trying to take as much of him as humanly possible. "Harder," she pleaded. 

He growled. "Take it," he groaned throatily at her. He was riding her brutally deep. "Take what I give you." 

Her entire body felt like it was collapsing around him. Her head was hanging down, her submission to his will complete. "Jesus, yes," she moaned. "Give me more." 

He growled again and took hold of her hips, while he was still leaning over her. He was stroking her brutally--the head of his shaft hitting her unspeakably deep. "Take it!" he screamed. 

She groaned at his need for her, at their joint desperation to be one at any cost. He filled her so perfectly; every millimeter of her depths was so oversensitized that she could feel every minute part of his huge shaft throbbing inside her--stroking her, controlling her. "Yessss," she moaned. 

He knew she was only seconds away from completion, and he wanted to give it to her desperately--wanted to wrap it up as a gift to her, to see her grab hold of it in abandonment . . . in joy. 

One hand moved between her and the chair, finding the aching little bud. "That's right, my one." His mouth moved over her neck, his breath hot on her skin. "Receive." 

He pinched her bud at the same time that he gave her one hard, brutal stroke. His mouth closed on her neck--teeth nipping, mouth suckling. She gave a bucking scream, and he repeated everything more brutally. 

"MICHAAAAELLLLLLL!!!!" The howl of her pleasure reverberated throughout the mostly-empty apartment. Her inner walls tightened precariously on him, rippling so thoroughly around him that he practically wanted to lose consciousness from pleasure. 

His arms wrapped around her tightly. "Oh my God, Nikita." He kissed her cheek. "My Nikita," he whispered. 

A second later, he threw his head back, as he gave a last, brutal, convulsive thrust into her. He let out a low, rumbling moan, as he started to rock uncontrollably against her--his whole body shaking, his release staggering him. His shaft danced fiercely within her, in total ecstatic submission. "Ohhhh," he groaned, his whole body alive with the sensations of love and fulfillment that she gave him so easily. 

The warmth of his release was overpowering inside of her. "Oh dear God, Michael," she moaned. She felt so connected to him. "Michael, I love you," she whispered. 

"`Kiiii-taa," his voice sobbed out. He buried his face in her hair; his tears ran down her neck. . . . It was also how she had woken up this morning, but this time was--to put it mildly--much more pleasurable for them both. 

God, he loved her. She was everything beautiful which would ever exist, and she had his soul completely. . . . There would never be any other truth. 

They stayed there--leant over the chair--for some time, their ecstasy connecting them, making them whole. He kissed her cheek, his eyes closed, while they both felt their love flow into one another. 

Even when they were brutal with each other, their souls were just bound further together by their total trust of one another. Their love still flowed between them, keeping them whole. 

Finally, much later, when they both thought they might be able to trust their legs, he stood up and--to both of their pain at the loss--pulled himself out of her. He fastened just the button on his pants and helped her stand, as well. He turned her back to him, and they looked deep in each other's eyes before finally kissing softly and intimately. 

He wasn't sure either of them could manage a walk to the bed at the moment. He broke from the kiss and led her over with him to the blanket they had been eating on. 

He kept her standing for a minute, while he picked their new bed up to shake out the crumbs from their meals. She smiled a little, watching. Then, he laid it back down again and held out his hand to her, pulling her close to him. They both lay down and removed the last of their remaining clothes, and he then pulled the blanket around them, as he held her close. 

They were both out of words to say to each other now. There was only touch--the soft stroking of hands to comfort and soothe, as they fell asleep. Both of them, though, only had one more conscious thought left before sleep came: "Mine." . . . The one they loved was finally, completely theirs. 

************ 

It had been many years since he had dreamed in poetry. The times when he used to write it were so far in the past, in fact, that they qualified--in his eyes--as a different lifetime. 

Michael had tried to struggle his feelings into verse when he had been in college--back before he had "died." He had never, however, thought himself very good at it; the poems were just his attempts to express his emotions in words--to give them some room to stretch, to provide him with an attempt to deal with them . . . on those few occasions when he had chosen to try. 

After his recruitment, though, when he had begun to try to destroy all outward emotions in himself--and any outlets they might find, he had stopped allowing himself all of these--to his mind--feeble attempts at expressing his feelings. . . . This hadn't, however, truly stopped the artistic side of himself; it had simply re-entrenched by taking up residence elsewhere in his psyche . . . in his dreams. 

For many years thereafter--up until he had been forced to marry Elena, in fact--his mind had used his periods of unconsciousness, from time to time, to allow this artistic side of himself some release. . . . It was, indeed, only with the introduction of his new, gentle target--and the torment that was brought, with her arrival, to his true marriage to Simone --that even his subconscious attempts to wring into words, into concepts, his pains and desires had finally ended. 

He had never been, consciously, certain that he had lost much, when they stopped, however. He had never even fully remembered them when he woke, anyway; they only ever lingered at the fringes of his mind enough to plague him with the memory of who he had once--wrongly--believed he could be. 

Now, though--after all these years, they had come back; a poem had returned. He wouldn't remember it in full when he woke, of course, but he realized, even while he was dreaming it, that this was something miraculous. 

It was about her, of course--was about Nikita . . . was about his beloved; no one else could inspire such a spiritual awakening in him. And, like all of the efforts of his youth, it was a poem full not of style or beauty--neither of which he felt he possessed--but emotion . . . of the desire to feel--the desire that she was allowing him to reclaim: 

When my beloved looks at me, I know I am alive. When I need her, I hear her angel's wing descend around my shoulders. And when she smiles, I see the reason the world was made. 

When my beloved looks at me, I see Life in her eyes--the answer to all of Love's questions. When I need her arms around me, I find her already there-- enfolding me in indescribable joy. And when I am frightened, I find her in my heart. 

She is everything holy I lost long ago. She is everything beautiful I thought was never made. And she gives me everything before I even know that I have asked: 

When I am tired, she carries me on her back. When I am lonely, she teaches me why I was born. And when I know the end has come, she teaches me of beginnings . . . Of forgiveness. 

When we are together, we are whole. . . . And when we love, we become something mythical-- A creature which consumes itself in fire, only to be reborn anew. 

Without her, my existence is only a vicious rumor. And without me, . . . Without me, she could be far better. 

But I won't let her be. 

Michael shuddered on waking, the poem in his dream disturbing him. Although he couldn't have pieced it back together consciously, he instinctively understood its meaning . . . and it frightened him terribly. 

He knew--he could see--the beauty that Nikita brought to him and to his life; he understood, as well, that they formed some sort of whole together--that they had a sort of spiritual magic. . . . He also feared unspeakably, however, that he was her downfall--her undoing, . . . that just by being with him, she was losing something of herself. 

It seemed so clear, after all. Nikita had taught him love--had brought him life, had given him the ability to care--to an almost painful depth--once again. . . . They were, indeed, the sort of gifts one expected angels to bring with them. 

He, in return, though, had taught her nothing of value. He sighed tearily. . . . No. His lessons were the antithesis of hers; he had taught her to kill--to lie--to manipulate and use--to inflict cruelty and pain. He had coached her, with methods unspeakably brutal, in how to give up parts of her soul for the one, profane goal of following destructive and pain-filled orders--orders whose intent, he knew in his heart, were always evil. 

He was still holding his beloved now--was still together with her on the blanket he had settled them on last night, her body molded on top of his. His inner fears, however--the part of himself which understood the depths to which his soul was capable of being willingly compromised, now told him that he had no right to be here with her. . . . Even if she wanted him, he should know to back away. 

It was his body, though, which raged against these orders--which refused to listen to the commands of his conscience . . . of his anxieties. He had woken to find himself throbbing nearly painfully against her soft thigh--his entire body in aching need for her; his skin was on fire with his passion for this woman who was his soul. Every fragment of him, in fact, was so completely alive with his burning need that her light, sleeping breath against his neck made him shudder uncontrollably. 

He knew he needed her. He knew he had to have her--not just now--not just sexually, but always--constantly, on every level on which human flesh and consciousness existed. Even if he *should*--he felt--let her go, he was physically incapable of it, at the moment . . . no, he amended his choice of words--ever. Even if it ended up destroying them both, he knew he would never--*Never* let her go. 

He needed her now--undeniably . . . brutally. He needed to control her body with his own, to mold her willing flesh to his. He needed her to give herself up to him completely--to see herself, if only for the time of their passion, as HIS--his to love, his to torment into flaming desire, . . . his to arouse to a maddening degree. He needed her complete and total submission to his will--and, when it was over, he needed her to give up her soul to him eternally, to expel it in a breath of destructive pleasure--to call for him as the only man she would ever allow to join with her . . . as the only one she would ever even acknowledge. 

He wasn't going to let her sleep, even if he knew she needed to. He was going to possess her like a wandering spirit in search of a host. . . . And there was no way he was going to allow her to *want* to say no. 

************ 

Nikita awoke with a groan, coming back into consciousness with the feeling of fire around her--a fire of passion so intense it felt like it was singeing her skin. Michael's hands were on her--one holding her back, the other tracing a heated need into the flesh of her side--his thumb coming up from time to time to stroke the underside of her breast. His skin was inflamed--feverish; his--once again--huge, thickened shaft throbbed wildly against her. 

She opened her eyes to look at him and saw such intense, fierce need in his eyes that she was almost frightened by it. His hand stroked her to him--holding her firmly against him, his arousal beating between them. "Michael," she whispered, searching his eyes for the reason for this. 

He searched her eyes in return for a second and then leaned up to take her lips in a kiss which was surprisingly gentle--and very erotic, his eyes still focused on hers. Once the soft stroking of his tongue against hers began to win her, however--her eyes closing in submission, the gentleness disappeared; the kiss became demanding--his tongue conquering the soft depths of her mouth, his lips practically bruising hers, as he held her head to him. 

He rolled himself over on top of her, his almost-intimidating arousal beating demandingly against her. He kept his hand behind her head to protect her from the hard surface of the floor, which the thin blanket couldn't shield her from, and lay himself heavily on top of her--pressing against her siren-like softness. 

She had been robbed of breath. The suddenness and fierce intensity of his need had almost sapped her of strength. 

He pulled his teeth across her lower lip, as he released her mouth and looked back at her, his eyes searching hers; he could sense her inability to comprehend the present ferocity of his desires. He gave her an opportunity to speak. "Do I frighten you, Nikita?" 

She didn't lie. "A little." 

He lay her head back gently on the blanket. His hand stroked down her side and over her hip--one finger then running back up--just over the surface of her skin. "This is who I am," he told her, eyes very serious. 

She shook her head a little. "It's not everything you are." 

He nodded. "It is right now." 

Her eyes were still a little scared; she realized suddenly, though, what it was she was afraid of. Her look grew hard. "Is this about me, Michael?" She didn't just want to be the random focus for his need--knew she would never survive it. 

This wasn't as incomprehensible a fear as it might appear; as much as they had both learned about each other in the last few days, after all, it couldn't entirely overcome the terrors he had instilled in her so often during their years together--all of the times he had used her needs to twist and manipulate her, always seeming to deny--after each betrayal--that he needed her at all. . . . Indeed, the suddenness--the, to her, unexplained nature--of his desire had brought them all back. 

He looked suddenly, terribly hurt, although he didn't pull back from her at all. "You think I don't want you?" 

Her eyes challenged him. "Do you?" 

He wanted to ravish her right then, but he knew that wouldn't make her believe. He was propped up on one elbow above her--his other hand beginning to roam her side, the first now stroking lines up and down the side of her neck; his eyes held hers in a look of brutal truth. "I've never truly needed anyone else." When he saw her disbelieving look, he continued. "Not even Simone. With her, we both just needed *someone*--needed to find some reason to go on living." 

His hand began stroking her face, as he explained further. "Had I met her in some other situation, we wouldn't have needed each other like we did." He shook his head a little. "I'm not even sure we would have loved each other." He sighed. "We would have noticed one another, been attracted--might even have been friends . . . or lovers. But we wouldn't have felt the way we did; that was because of Section--because we needed some outlet to allow us to feel." 

He was propped on both elbows now--both his hands beginning to stroke her face. "After Simone, there was nothing--until you. I never felt *any* arousal for anyone but you." 

She still looked cautious; he had brought up another trauma from their past. "And your valentine targets--Lisa Fanning? Andrea?" 

He shook his head. "No one." She still wasn't convinced. He began running one hand down her throat--trying to give himself some outlet to help him survive not being buried deep inside her; he was focused there, as well. 

"I've been trained, Nikita. I can tell my body to respond when and how it's necessary." He looked back up at her eyes. "That doesn't mean I feel *anything*--emotionally or physically." 

She couldn't entirely understand, not having been trained for it herself. "How can you *not* feel something, at least physically?" She shook her head. "I've never known a man who didn't," she shrugged, "even if he hated the woman." 

Her words, though, had revealed more than she understood; he smiled slightly, following through on them. "Of course you haven't. It's not possible that *any* man who desired women in the least could *not* be aroused by you." 

"So, are you saying that your targets just weren't arousing?" 

He shook his head, returning to his main point; she wasn't understanding at all. He had no desire that she should, though--first hand . . . wanted desperately to protect her from it. He continued to try to explain. "No. It's not them. . . . It's me. I *can't* feel desire for them. When I'm with any of them, my body is dead; it doesn't feel at all." 

She was still confused, not processing this. She shook her head. 

"I'm a whore, Nikita." He was explaining it to her in the same brutal terms the situation deserved. "I can sleep with anyone they tell me to, extract the necessary intel., and leave--without ever looking back. There's no sense of release for me--no pleasure or desire. It's a physical act without meaning or emotion--a means to an end." 

This really was a new concept for her; for a woman, it made sense to her--but for a man, . . . She shook her head. "So, there's just *nothing*?" 

He closed his eyes for a second, his arousal beating more strongly against her in its need to be close to the woman he loved. "There's been pain . . . some humiliation." He opened his eyes again, focusing deeply on her. "I've felt disgust . . . boredom." He shook his head. "But never--*never* have I felt any desire or pleasure." 

She swallowed, her eyes getting red, seeing the pain he had been put through. Her hand reached up to stroke the side of his neck tenderly. 

She still needed to know a few things, however--needed to understand this new side of himself he was opening to her view. She hated, though, to bring up even more difficult subjects. She took a quiet breath before asking very softly, "What about Elena?" 

He shook his head, smiling a little ironically that she would still think his betrayed mission wife had had any romantic meaning to him. "No." He sighed, wanting to explain in full. "She was a beautiful and tender woman--a gentle and giving lover." His eyes searched over his true love's face for a second before recapturing her gaze again. "And I never once even wanted to kiss her." 

Nikita closed her eyes, beginning to take in the true significance of his words--the huge commitment he had made to her in telling her all of this. She just needed to know one more thing--needed to hear it. "And me?" She refocused on him. 

He groaned unconsciously--a noise of pure spiritual need which had risen from the depths of his soul. He was *desperate* for her to understand. 

His hands ran back to stroke through her hair. "I need you so badly it's almost a physical pain at times. I wake up at night--or find myself in the middle of Section--needing you fiercely." 

His breathing grew more ragged, as his eyes stroked over her face. "I want to touch you in every way there is." He focused on her lips. "I want to make love to you in every position I can find." His look ran up to wash over her hair. "I've found myself sitting in my office, staring blankly at a computer I was supposed to be working on, my mind tormenting me with incredible fantasies." His eyes continued roaming her face. "If I could make love to you every day for the rest of our lives, I would be happy just to serve you--to spend hours . . . days just pleasing you." 

His arousal was beating against her even more strongly now; he was beginning to tremble slightly with need. His eyes focused heatedly on hers. "Nothing pleases me more than to hear your sounds of fulfillment." His hand stroked strongly over her hair. "These last few days have been the most beautiful . . . the only real ones of my life." His thoughts became even more intimate. "When I feel you trembling against me--your walls tightening around me--I'm whole, for the only time." His breath was hot and ragged against her face. "My need for you threatens my sanity," he shook his head, "and I have *no* desire to be sane." 

A small groan escaped from her, but she needed to know one last thing. He had talked about needing to please her but not about being pleased himself. She stroked his face. "But do *I* please *you*, Michael?" 

He let out a loud, trembling groan, and pulled her head up to his--leaning down to kiss her in fierce abandon. He possessed her completely, drawing the air from her lungs, making her head swim. 

It lasted for several heartbeats, until he drew back from it for a split second, enough time to let her gasp in one breath of air. "*Yes*," he groaned in answer. His mouth lowered to wreak erotic destruction on hers once more, as a growl escaped the back of his throat. 

She was completely overwhelmed--his kiss awakening her need for him fiercely--making it burn inside her. She had always known that he fulfilled her in a way no other man ever could, but she had never had Michael confirm so clearly that she did the same for him in reverse--maybe even more cataclysmically. 

His confession sharpened her desire to a laser-like point. She wanted him dangerously--brutally; she wanted him to be so completely ruthless with her that there would be nothing of her left. 

The kiss was so thorough and deep that it was practically a fusing together of the soft depths of their mouths. She found herself whimpering in it; he was groaning in response. His arousal beat against her furiously. 

The kiss got rougher, as each one tried to completely possess the other in it. She held him to her--her hand in his hair; her other one was on his shoulder, her nails clawing him toward herself. His own hands began to stroke up her abdomen and over her stomach, moving upward with intent. 

They began biting each other's lips slightly, furious with their mutual need to be joined. They were both groaning loudly. 

Finally, she ran her teeth back over his lip to let him go. She looked up at him in agonizing need. "Michael," she whimpered. 

His arousal jerked between them, responding to her call. He took something in for a second, though, and then reached away--off the blanket, coming back with some of the clothing he had discarded earlier. He lifted her head and gently placed them behind it as a pillow. "Better?" 

She looked surprised. "Yes." She hadn't even consciously registered her discomfort before. 

His hands were running back and forth along her stomach and abdomen, coming teasingly close to her breasts and then back down. They were simply watching each other now. He stroked up again and ran a finger tauntingly over each achingly aroused nipple before his hands' next return journey downward. 

The soft, simple touch inflamed her further. She leaned her head back in her new pillow and moaned, eyes closing. "Uhhh." 

She looked up at him again after she caught a breath--a fire in her gaze. "Michael . . . take me," she begged. She grabbed his shoulders to pull him back down to her, capturing his mouth passionately. 

He moaned against her lips and grabbed her head to pull it up toward him for a second--his responding kiss hard. She groaned beneath him, holding him in it. 

He pulled back from it finally with the slight sting of his teeth on her lips. His stare was heated and demanding. "Tell me what you want me to do." He didn't want her permission as much as her surrender; he wanted her to beg him to please her--even though both of them knew perfectly well that he would. Their discussion of his past--of his life in Section--had made his need for her desperate and greedy; he needed--far beyond his ability to explain--to have her tell him all the ways he pleased her, needed to know that he was good for the woman who was both his lover and his soul. 

She groaned at his request--understanding it completely, instantly willing. She grabbed his shoulders again and pulled him closer to her, her lips playing over his, as she spoke. "I want to feel your strong, dangerously talented hands on me." She smiled and then rubbed her lips against his. "I want to feel your soft lips, teasing gently over my skin." She groaned slightly at the thought, continuing her list--her hands running over his back. "I want to feel your incredible tongue stroking over me--running down my neck--over my breasts." Her breathing was ragged. "I want it to enter me deeply." She groaned once more. "I want to hear you groan in desire, while you feast on me--want to be teased with your huge length throbbing against me." 

His eyes were wide, as he listened; he was completely spellbound. She stroked her hand down his side and then pushed him back enough to run it between them; she captured his shaft, her thumb stroking around the head. "I want to feel this inside of me, Michael." She groaned at the thought, rubbing her circles faster. "I want you to stroke me deep and hard, want to be conquered by your thrusts--a slave to your rhythm. I want you to own me with every beautiful, rough stroke." 

She took in the roaring fire of his gaze, his breathing erratic, and she smiled again. "And, when the inevitable happens, and I give myself up to you--when I've lost all sense of sanity and self in the pleasure you've given me," her voice was very low, as she ran her hand back up to his shoulder, "I want you to come into me so hard it hurts." 

He was trembling slightly in need, when she finished. He leaned forward and put his hands on the back of her shoulders--his face just a breath above hers. He maneuvered his hips so that his arousal was taunting her nether bud with its insane throbbing. "You want me rough?" he breathed out. 

She took hold of his shoulders and leaned up a millimeter from his lips. "I want you brutal," she demanded. 

She felt the low, intense growl which came from him reverberate through her body, as well. He grabbed hold of her head and pulled her toward him, his mouth ruthless and uncompromising against hers--once again robbing her of air. She moaned through it, adoring his utter abandon to his needs; God, she *loved* being the woman he desired. 

His teeth played over her lips, as he looked at her. His eyes burned. "You'll get that and more," he warned, before his mouth lowered in near-destructive arousal on hers. She whimpered beneath him in desire, and he growled. 

He pulled back once more--briefly. "And you'll love it," he stated with authority. He then recaptured--reconquered her mouth. 

She was whimpering constantly beneath him. "Yes," she moaned, when the kiss broke for a second. He growled and took her lips once more. 

************** 

He continued the kiss--deepening it further, while his hands ran down--beginning to rub his thumbs over her aching nipples. Her whimpering continued. 

He pulled back from her for a second, though, when he remembered something which might be helpful for them. He smiled at her heatedly. "Don't move." 

She was in total confusion as he stood up and walked away from her, leaving the room completely; she had no idea what he was up to. He certainly seemed intent on returning, however, so she decided to simply watch him walk away and enjoy the view. 

He returned to her a minute later, still obviously achingly aroused. He had a small tube of something in his hand. 

She watched him as he came back to lower himself on her again. "Hi," he said, a second before he recaptured her lips in another deep kiss. She groaned at his passion. She was still waiting to find out what that had all been about, though, when she felt his hand rub something on her neck, over a mark he had given her--one which could be a bit painful at times. 

The substance he was using, however, felt magical. It was a thick sort of oil, except it seemed to disappear into her skin once it was rubbed in. The flesh, too--which had just felt so raw, was now soothed--feeling not just normal but enlivened. She broke the kiss in surprise, moaning. "What is that?" 

He looked a little saddened. "It's a Section product. It's for valentine ops.--to help them heal more quickly." His thumb rubbed over the spot, which seemed even more sensitized than it normally would have been. She moaned in pleasure. "Do you like it?" he asked. 

"Yes," she rumbled. "What's it made of?" 

He took a little more and rubbed it into another overly-tender spot. "Does it matter?" 

"Noooo," she moaned out. He kissed her again. 

After another few minutes of this arousal--Michael rubbing at the other bruised spots on her neck, she pulled back to look at him once more, her curiousity about him needing to be satisfied again. "Have you used it often?" 

He looked saddened again. "Only when there were marks which would be visible." His eyes stated clearly that he meant "visible to her." 

She moaned, her love for him contracting her heart slightly; he had used it, she knew, not to soothe his own pains but to try to keep her from having to think about his forced affairs--his days with other women. Her eyes were filled with incredible tenderness. 

He smiled and moved his head down to begin licking over a spot he had just started to heal. She wanted to hold him to her--the sensations were incredible, but her mind still held questions. "It doesn't taste bad?" She didn't want him to sacrifice his pleasure for hers. 

He continued suckling her but stopped massaging some of the oil into her marred skin. He held his thumb--still covered with the product--up to her mouth. 

She took him in to suckle him and then moaned loudly; he raised his head from her neck. "It's an aphrodisiac, as well." 

She was suckling his thumb in abandon. The sight was too much for him. If she continued, he would ravish her right now. He pulled it out of her mouth, with a groan. She looked at him. "Why didn't you think of this before?" 

His eyes grew serious and a little sad. "I'll never need *any* help to feel desire for you, Nikita." 

She moaned in response to his words and pulled him down for a long, deep kiss. They both moaned in it, the odd mixture they had been tasting sharpening their desire for each other almost painfully. 

He pulled back to look at her in desperation. He needed to move further down her now, or he would just enter her immediately. While he wanted to heal the wounds he had given her, he wondered, too, whether the oil was really a good idea; their need for each other was so sharp at the moment, it was almost dangerous. If they added an aphrodisiac to that . . . 

She read his thoughts and moved his head down to her neck. "Who cares what happens, Michael? Just take me, before I go insane." 

He groaned and began to comply. He bent down to her neck once more, his tongue running lines over the now intensely-sensitized flesh. Then he bit her gently. 

She moaned out in desire and held him to her. "More! Oh, Michael, more!" she groaned. He obliged her, re-irritating the tender flesh in the way she so desperately wanted. 

Her head was back, her eyes closed, as she groaned out for more. She wasn't sure she was going to be able to stand the extra arousal this new factor gave her, but she had decided that dying this happy wouldn't be bad at all. 

His teeth came up to run over a sensitive spot on her throat, which she happily bared for him, her hands deep in his hair. His hands, meanwhile, took the oil down to a place he had been worrying about--the twin, aroused peaks of her breasts. 

He began rubbing in the tantalizing oil there, as he moved to place his teeth at the crook of her neck, biting her. She groaned out loudly. "More," she whimpered. All of the pain her nipples had been feeling off and on the last few days disappeared completely, replaced instead with a burning desire to have him suckle at her anew. 

"Michael, please," she begged, trying to move him down. 

He moaned, loving it when she got needy. He gave the sensitive spot he was at one more hard bite--to her screaming groan--and then began to move down her body to her beautiful breasts. 

He looked up at her, as he reached them--sitting up a little. His thumbs stroked over them lightly, which sent shards of intense need through her. She looked back up at him. 

His eyes were bright. "I love tasting you here." He pinched her nipples slightly; she screamed, wanting more. He leaned his head down to run his tongue over one repeatedly then looked back up. "I love how aroused you get for me." He smiled wickedly. "I love that I can make you moan." 

He lowered his head to her nipple and took her lightly in his teeth. She leaned her head back to let out something resembling a howl. His tongue ran over her tip--his teeth still holding her, and she began gasping. 

She looked down at him. "Michael . . . please . . . be rough with me." She held his head to the little aching point. 

He smiled against her flesh and bit her--to her gasping scream. "Moooore," she groaned, holding him to her more tightly. 

He began suckling her roughly, loving her response; he knew the very least of it was Section's oil. . . . And it made him insane that he could arouse her this much. 

She was moaning desperately, pressing him nearly-painfully to her. He began to use his teeth on her a bit more, and her hips started thrusting at him insanely, as she gave moaning gasps. 

He made certain each of her thrusts hit her tender bud against his desperate arousal. They both moaned out at the sensation, and he got rougher at her breast. 

"Michael," she growled. "Uhhhh . . . more!" 

Oh God, he needed her soon. Either that or he would go insane. 

He left the breast he had been tormenting finally, soothing it by pinching it with his hand. She groaned, and his mouth closed on its twin, suckling even more roughly here. 

"Mmm, Michael, yes," she moaned. 

He no longer felt even vaguely sane; her noises had driven him mad. He pinched her neglected bud one last time and then reached for the oil. Spreading some more of it on his hand, he reached down her--aiming at her depths. 

He bit her nipple once more, when he entered her with his hand--spreading the soothing treatment to the tender flesh he had been so roughly using for the last few days--tracing his thumb up over her bud. The hard-used flesh lost all of its ache from overuse; replacing it, instead, was a throbbing desire for more. "Ahhh," she moaned. 

As his fingers reached far into her, her body clenched around them; she was so close to the edge. The intense, erotic sensitization the oil had given her, combined with Michael's sensual skills were almost too much. He smiled, knowing this, and stroked his fingers into her--hard--once, while running his teeth roughly up over her nipple. 

Nikita moaned out and arched toward him. She was simultaneously fulfilled and aroused. There was a singing warmth in her blood, . . . but it was meeting head-on with a perilously-savage desire for him. 

"Ahhhh," she moaned. She managed to look up at him, swallowing heavily--in such need that, even though his hand was still stroking her perfectly, she felt empty. "Michael," she moaned. She reached to try to pull his hand from her. "Oh God, I need you now!" Her eyes were desperate and needy. "Please!!" 

Dear God, he thought, looking at her. He wanted to please her in other ways tonight, but he wasn't sure he could wait any longer, either. 

He rubbed a finger against a tender, rejuvenated inner spot. She was groaning, tears running from her closed eyes, head back. "You're sure?" he asked. 

She screamed in need from his ministrations and looked up at him. "Michael, please!!" 

He groaned, giving in. He removed his hand from her and spread her thighs apart--pushing them back onto the blanket. He positioned himself at her depths with his hips. 

He licked his lips; he was insane for this. He loved--dementedly--being able to hear her desperate pleas of need. "What do you want?" 

She panted. "You!" She moaned. "I want you deep." Her hands ran down to grab him from behind, trying to get him to enter her. "I want to feel you throbbing in me." 

When she couldn't encourage him to enter her with her hands, she pinched his curves and felt him jump against her; she groaned deeply--still keeping eye contact. "Oh Michael, please." Her nails stroked red lines from there up his back, and she felt him throb against her more strongly, as a growl rose from his throat. "Please. . . . Take me like an animal." 

************** 

His eyes glowed fiercely at her. Their desire for each other had nothing to do with Section or their regenerative product but was, instead, the perfect and natural result of their love and need. 

He pulled her hips up toward him and sank about two inches of his thickened length into her. "You like it rough, my lioness?" 

She was growling. . . . Oh, Jesus, he felt good--but she wanted all of him. Her hands clawed at his soft curves. Her eyes taunted him, her voice challenging--sultry. "Claim your mate, my lion." She smiled wickedly. "Make her beg." 

He pushed several more inches into her, pulling her further toward him from behind. "Mmmm," he moaned. Nikita's head was back, moaning; his eyes ran down the beautiful lines of her body, lying before him. "You'll plead." 

He pulled her up, sinking himself almost completely into her, as she howled in desire. He held there for a minute while he leaned down and started biting her neck; his hands were still sunk into her sweet curves. 

She was trying to pull him toward herself with her hands, while arching her neck into his teeth. She was groaning dementedly. She was desperate to have him completely inside her--to feel him become utterly untamed--insanely wild, even if she had to taunt him to get that. She bit his earlobe and whispered, "fuck me, my lion." 

He growled and pulled himself completely into her in one deep, hard thrust. She moaned deeply in response, her nails sinking into his curves--her head back. "Yessss." 

He was insane for her. He needed her so completely that his life seemed empty if he wasn't inside her. He was desperate to prove to her that she was the only person who would ever truly have him--body or soul. 

"You like that?" he whispered in her ear. 

She clawed at his curves, and he jumped strongly inside her in response. She moaned. "God, yes." 

They looked back at each other again--all of their need and love for one another completely entangled. They were acting out of their primal selves--the parts of them which simply recognized that they were mated and would never understand any reason why they might be kept apart. 

They broke the look to attack each other's mouths in a possessive and brutal kiss; her hands ran up to hold him in it. They were focused only on their desire to mate with the other half of their souls; consequences--physical or otherwise--simply weren't part of it. 

He felt her adjust to him enough, and he started giving her long, very deep strokes, holding on to her sweet curves. He was growling--was hungry for her pleasure, was insane to hear her moan. 

She met his rhythm desperately, and held him in the kiss. She tightened her walls around him--making the friction between them even more intense. 

He leaned back from the kiss finally--his growl deepening. He was growing even larger within her, was loving every second of his possession of her. "How does that feel?" he asked, pulling himself deep into her. 

She growled in response, eyes heated. Her nails were now scraping his shoulders. "Mmmm . . . good." 

"Just `good'?" he asked knowingly. He pulled himself into her harder, more roughly. 

Her head fell back again. "Ohhhh, yes." She panted. "God, I love it when you do that." 

"When I do what?" he taunted. He rode her ruthlessly. 

She bit his shoulder and suckled there--to his moan. "Mmmm, when you ride me like an animal." 

He smiled and held the inside of her thighs down on the bed, giving her very long, deep strokes. The whole, hard length of him rode completely into her with each one. "Like that?" Her abandonment to their feral pleasure was making him crazy; he wanted her beautifully tormented. 

"Mmmm," she moaned again. Her head was back, her eyes closed. Her hands clawed him. "God, you're huge." She looked back at him. "I love how deep you take me." 

He growled again, stroking her harder. "You like it big?" He was loving her desire-filled speech, was aroused perilously by being allowed into her private, erotic thoughts. 

She shook her head. What was the point of "big," if you didn't know what you were doing? Pain and boredom were a stupid combination. "I like *you* big," she clarified, her eyes burning. 

His shaft swelled yet further in her--liking her compliments. He leaned forward and rode her further in. "You want it deep?" 

"Mmmm . . . mmmm, yes." Her head was back again, eyes closed. 

"Look at me," he commanded. She did, excited further by his voice. "Tell me everything you feel." Being able to share her pleasure this way was almost more erotic than he could bear, but he had no intention of giving it up. 

She moaned, aroused even further by his command of her--by his need for her, by his desire--as well--for them to share all of their pleasure with each other--in word and action. "Go deeper," she ordered. 

She groaned, then, when he did as she asked. "I feel your thick head stroking through me . . . mmmm," she groaned, closing her eyes--momentarily overwhelmed, "hitting me wonderfully deep." She looked back at him. 

His eyes shone at her, and he began thrusting into her harder. "More," he begged her to go on. 

Her eyes shone back, loving how much this aroused him. "Mmmm, I feel your huge, sweet length filling me completely every time you stroke me." 

She leaned up to kiss him deeply, and he groaned. "I'm empty without you," she purred, looking back at him--lying back down. He pushed himself --took their rhythm deeper, and she moaned. "Mmmmm . . . I need you in me every moment for the rest of my life." 

He growled and kissed her--roughly and deeply--before pulling back. "More," she begged. He rode her harder still--incredibly deep. 

"Oooooo," she moaned. "Yes. God, I love it when you're rough with me. . . . I love it when you need me so badly you can't think straight anymore." He started giving her short, hard, deep strokes--hitting her core with abandon. Her eyes widened, as she moaned. "Oh, Michael," she whimpered, no longer able to be seductive--just able to feel. "Please, yes." 

He used her curves to pull himself deep into her in their wild rhythm. Then, he showed her the sort of erotic torment the right words could inflict. He focused deeply on her eyes, refusing to let her look away. "I love that you hold me so deep, Nikita. I love how your body begs for my thrusts--how it clings to me, asking for more." 

She was giving little panting moans. He moved his hands up her back--lying her curves on the, only thinly-covered, hard floor once again--giving her no relief from his throbbing impact. "I love that when I ride you like this, you wrap your arms around me and beg for it harder." 

His breathing was heavy and ragged, as he started using his knees to help him thrust--impacting into her with rough force. She was letting out long groans, her body beginning to brace for the coming storm. "I love that no matter what I do, you beg for more." 

He leaned further over her, his eyes shining down at her--taking total command, as she whimpered and moaned--completely caught in his gaze. "I love all your sounds--all your cries of pleasure." 

He held onto her shoulders, and his deep strokes moved even further in--to her rhythmic, screaming whimpers. His voice got rougher, his words cruder--his need deep and almost insatiable; he wanted to burn her with his desire. "I want to come every time you say my name. I want to enter you every time I see you--want to command your hot, tight depths, until you whimper in submission to me." 

She groaned out loudly, her eyes locked to his. "Oh God, yes!" 

He smiled ferally, continuing his rough thrusts and his erotically-tormenting words. "Your body was created to be satisfied by me, Nikita--no one else. I don't just want to be your lover; I want to be your god." He was hitting her very roughly. "I want you to worship me by coming at my command several times every day." 

"Mi-chael," she was whimpering. Her eyes were tear-filled and overwhelmed. 

Her little whimpers drove him on further, his desire now mixing with despair. "If I could, `Kita, I'd marry you. I'd serve and service you every day." He was rotating his hips roughly, unspeakably deep in her, as she let out whining groans. 

There were tears in his eyes and his voice. "We would have the children you've always wanted, and I would be their father in more than just name." Her nails were digging further into his shoulders. "I would love and protect you. The only time I would ever be anything but gentle with you is when we both needed a sweet, aching release." 

His rough, deep thrusts were sending a strong spiral of warmth trembling into her body. "I would be lover and friend--a source of aching pleasure and instinctive comfort. You would never have to distrust me again." 

"Michael!" she whimpered. Her legs were wrapped very tightly around him now--her back arched; she couldn't take much more of either his beautiful, loving words or his incredible, erotic thrusts. 

He continued, anyway. "I would take the throbbing release only you can give me and give you my own in return--multiplied a hundredfold." He was giving her incredibly short, perilously deep, brutally rough thrusts--thrusts so deep and intense that they seemed to physically bind them together. She couldn't even make any noise anymore--beyond everything, her lips trembling--her eyes tearing, as they were caught up completely in his commanding and loving gaze. "And--for once, Nikita--I would deserve to be loved and worshiped by you." 

Her tears ran down her face--her eyes locked to his, spellbound. His tears fell onto her, mingling with her own. "But for now, `Kita," he drew himself almost completely out of her, "all I can give you is this," and he stroked roughly--almost viciously deep--back into her core. 

She screamed out in throbbing release--eyes wide, hips bucking at him, nails tearing at his shoulders, as he ground himself into her. . . . Oh God. Nothing else ever felt like this. . . . No one else had ever existed. 

"Yes," he moaned and leaned his head down to bite at her nipple. Her orgasm went up several levels--sweeping through her, beating through her unspeakably. . . . She felt remade. 

She was only a few seconds into it, however, when she realized that he wasn't joining her--that he didn't really seem to have any intention of it, content to have pleased her but unconcerned about his own pleasure. She was almost too overwhelmed by her own release to breathe, . . . but there was no way she was allowing this. 

"Michael," she groaned, her release still sweeping through her brutally. She pushed his head away from her breast and then rolled them over until she landed on top. 

Now in control, she became utterly feral. She grabbed his waist and started to ride him roughly--her tight, trembling walls stroking over him insanely. 

"You're not getting away with this, Michael," she demanded, getting even rougher with him. She leaned her head down to suckle brutally at his nipple and--despite himself--he ran his hands into her hair to hold her there. She ran her teeth back over the bud, releasing him. "You're mine," she commanded, "and you'll come when I tell you to." 

He was groaning now, unable to fight the passion she was forcing him to accept--fighting him past his feelings of despair at not deserving her. She was stroking up and down his entire length tightly, building further upon her own, throbbing orgasm. 

He let out a choking sound; she felt so good he could barely stand it. "`Ki-ta," he moaned. He looked up to see her head back, as she rode him. 

God, he felt incredible. There was no one else she would ever want like this--no one else who could ever feel this good in her. Her own release hadn't entirely abated; she was, in fact, still shaking from it, but this just made every sense she had keener. Every millimeter of her skin was practically trembling from being indescribably oversensitized; even the air around her seemed to caress her erotically. 

Beautiful. . . . She was so beautiful. Her hair flowed around her; her rosy peaks were achingly taut. Her whole body spoke of the most sensual, complete pleasure. 

The feeling of her tight depths stroking along him, coming down to hit his tip hard each time was almost unbearable; she thrust down on him harder, seeming to understand his surrender. Her tight walls made him ache to give himself up to her; he was throbbing now in his need for release. His whole shaft was so achingly sensitized it was almost painful; it was pleading for her wanton attentions. "`Ki-ta, please," he begged. 

She looked back down at him, her eyes understanding that he had allowed his fears and guilt to be swept aside. She continued her long, tight strokes for several more minutes of torment--for them both--until she was certain that his whole shaft was so tremblingly close to release that it would take very little to provoke it. 

She smiled at him. "Come for me, Michael," she commanded him, as she thrust herself down on him--incredibly roughly, his over-sensitized tip hitting her core brutally and deeply. "Come for me, my love." 

She felt him jerk uncontrollably up at her, his hips lifting to meet her. She put her hands behind him--her nails clawing him--and held him deep inside her. 

He howled out his release--mindless, his whole body throbbing uncontrollably with it. His spasms were singing through him unspeakably. 

She closed her eyes then. "Yes," she moaned. Her head fell back, as his warmth shot into her; his whole shaft danced inside her in release, being drained of all need by her tight, throbbing, sensitive and rippling walls. 

"Ohhhh," she moaned, filled with his essence--his life. Her walls felt every last, desperate jerk of his shaft, as it beat against them in this final moment--her own orgasm racking her with its fulfillment. 

Somehow, though, it still wasn't quite enough; her soul still cried for him. She looked down. "Michael . . . my love," she moaned out for him. 

He felt it, too--the distance, the terrible--shaking emotional need to be close. He sat up quickly and put his arms around her, holding her unspeakably tightly. "My `Kita," he sighed. 

Yes, yes . . . this was it--the answer to her desperate need. She put her arms around him and collapsed against him like a rag doll, suddenly lifeless with her raging, total--nearly painful--release, her body's warm, throbbing completion mixing with her soul's. "Michael," she sighed, as he kissed the side of her face. 

They stayed that way for many minutes--not even imagining moving. They were washed in a warm, glowing light, their souls whole and wrapped together as one. . . . There was no possibility of disuniting them. 

He breathed into her hair and kissed her face again. He loved her so much; he knew he could never be human without her. . . could never even begin to understand the purpose of his life without his beloved. 

The intimacy of their love bound them tightly together. It was quite some time later, in fact, before they finally moved enough to lie down, pulling the blanket over themselves to keep them from getting cold. 

They looked at each other finally. Nikita's eyes were stern, remembering his attempt to stave off--to ignore his own pleasure, and she finally spoke her mind. "Don't you *ever* do that again, Michael." 

He nodded and kissed her softly, agreeing to her demands. When he leaned back from it, he ran his hand over the side of her face, into her hair. "I'll never be whole without you, my Nikita." His eyes asked for forgiveness. 

She nodded and kissed him, accepting his apology. "I love you, Michael," she smiled, pulling back. She looked sad, her hand stroking his cheek. "Please don't ever strand me like that again." 

He nodded and kissed her forehead, then her lips. "I won't." He deepened the kiss for a few seconds, then leaned back, sighing. "I won't," he promised, kissing her once more. He just hoped his feelings of guilt and despair could be held in bay enough to help him keep his vow. 

They curled up then, Michael holding her close, her head on his chest. He sighed, stroking her hair, as they worked their way toward a blissful sleep. 

He kissed the top of her head, as he felt her sweet body relax against his; she was everything beautiful his world would ever know. . . . And, as long as he had anything which resembled human consciousness, there would never be a single day that he didn't love her with everything in his soul. 

*************** 

The following morning was--to all outward appearances--much like all of those before it. They had held each other quietly for several hours--after they woke--and had then proceeded, with soft smiles, to eat breakfast together. Later, as Michael cleaned up, Nikita went to take a shower. . . . Seemingly, indeed, all was normal. 

But it wasn't--not at all. Something had changed. . . . Michael had changed. Last night had shaken him, had made him question himself . . . had made him question their lives together. 

He was sitting against a wall drinking his coffee alone now, as Nikita showered. He was back in a pair of soft-materialed pants and had already cleaned up the mess they had made the night before--had gotten rid of all of the material vestiges of their passion. . . . Even the blanket was now in the wash. 

Something last night had altered everything for him--not for the better; he thought back over their actions, analyzing them--his features now showing exhaustion and torment. It worried him--deeply--that he enjoyed being so unspeakably rough with Nikita. She was, after all, the absolute focus of everything good and pure in him--was the center of all of his love and desire; it frightened him more than a little that he enjoyed her submission so much, that he got such intense pleasure from his ruthlessness with her body. 

He knew, however, that she had been truthful--in their conversation that first morning--when she had told him that she shared his rougher needs. . . . This, though, didn't make him feel any better. He worried, instead, that it was him who had given those to her--was him who had taught her to enjoy being dominated. 

He shuddered. He didn't want her this way; he didn't want her silent and worshipful. He loved her spirit, her energy--her joy. He was *not* interested in a woman who always meekly said "yes." As dangerous as they had sometimes proven in Section, he needed Nikita to have her own, strong opinions. 

He closed his eyes for a second, sighing briefly. She had taught him so much. It was her desire to see justice done--to protect those in need--to not hurt the innocent which had begun to spark a renewal in his soul. He refocused on the room. He needed her to continue to demand that her soul stay with her. . . . The day she gave that up, after all, was the day any chance for their future would die. 

He closed his eyes again and rubbed them tiredly. He knew he had damaged her repeatedly in their life together--knew that he had, more than once, demanded that she give up her true self simply to stay alive. . . . And he hated, unspeakably, that he could do this so often to the woman he loved. 

He understood, however, that--if her life were endangered by her conscience again in the future, he would do exactly the same things he had in their past. He sighed once more, his eyes still closed; he was beginning to fight back tears. 

He was, in fact, starting to feel a little sick, as he pondered their pain-filled path together. . . . Nothing had changed--nothing at all had changed between them. He was still willing to hurt and use her--if "necessary"; he knew he would still knowingly destroy her spirit, if it would save her physical life. 

He swallowed heavily. How could he begin to justify this? How--given all of the depravity he so casually focused on her--could he possibly still claim that he loved her? 

He opened his eyes, trying to hold back his angry tears. . . . He hated himself. He could imagine no creature more loathesome than one who would damage a soul it claimed to care about--who would do this, even worse, solely for its own, depraved purposes. 

He knew, without doubt, that he was the absolute embodiment of that demented creature; he had kept Nikita alive so often not so much because he wanted to protect her as because he *needed* her so desperately. He had proven, over and over again, that he would willingly destroy her soul, if it meant that he could keep her close to him. 

He felt sickened. He was vile . . . despicable. He had hurt her--had damaged her irreparably. He had taken a beautiful, innocent, angelic woman and had turned her into a killer . . . and--worse--one who liked to be controlled sexually. 

He swallowed back the bile that was rising in his throat; his breathing was becoming unsteady. He was certain now that he had defiled her repeatedly, that her desire for him was the absolute proof of his demonic success at corruption. 

He closed his eyes briefly before refocusing in disgust on the room where he had so ruthlessly--and repeatedly--degraded her. She had no chance, if she stayed with him. He needed to distance himself from her--needed to let her go--to force her to go, if necessary--so that she could have some chance of once more finding the soul he had so cruelly stolen. 

Nikita came back in finally, wrapped once again in his robe--still warm from her shower and their night of intimacy. She wasn't totally unaware of Michael's turmoil, though; she had been a little worried throughout the morning about the disturbance she felt in him, in fact--even if she didn't know entirely where his distress was heading. 

She couldn't stop thinking about Michael's apparent lack of concern for his own pleasure last night--about his total refusal of it in his quest to please her. It all seemed too symbolic, really, of one of his major problems--of his inability to really let go. He simply wouldn't allow himself to be served or helped. As much his ego was--on a certain level--more than healthy, in fact, he was, conversely, still dangerously convinced that he was unsalvageable--that he had no inherent beauty. 

These thoughts, indeed, had been ringing through her head, as she had showered. They were brought into much sharper focus, however, when she entered the living room again to see his look of utter despair and worry. 

It was a look that stopped her in her tracks; the look was exactly the same one she had seen--and had been scarred by--once before, after their night together on the Armel mission. "Michael?" she asked questioningly. 

He looked up at her but didn't answer. His eyes held such pain. 

She swallowed. "What is it?" 

"It's nothing," he claimed, standing up. His whole manner was distant now. He turned away from her to take his cup to the sink, most of its contents ignored. 

"`Nothing'?" she questioned, wisely not believing. 

He tried to ignore her concern; he needed to distance her from him--however painful it would be for them both, or he could never hope to save her. "Maybe it's time you left," he stated matter-of-factly, not even looking at her. 

The words made her whole body seem to burn with cruel, unbearable pain for a second--making her feel a little queasy; she tried to fight it down. "Did Section call you?" 

"No." He forced himself to look up at her, his face ruthlessly blank. "But you can't stay here forever." 

She wanted to break down from the excruciating torment of his words, wanted to fall to her knees as though she had been punched, but her logic forced her to try to focus--her instincts knew this wasn't real. She tried to work her way through her pain. 

She walked toward him. "Why not?" 

His soul was twisted and bleeding from his brutal efforts to distance her; every word he was using against her--against them both--was cutting through the strong sinew of his spirit like a sharpened razor blade. . . . It was an act of emotional suicide. 

He was using every tiny bit of his Section training to stay focused on his task. He kept his eyes as cold as possible. "Because I don't want you." 

Some part of Nikita began weeping furiously, like a small, abandoned child. All of his years of lies and betrayals were overwhelming her--were building on her own horrible childhood years of neglect. 

She still knew, however, that this wasn't real--knew he was caught up in some terrible self-deceiving attempt to "protect" her. She forced herself--with incredible effort--to stay focused on this fact. 

She was encouraged, as well, by what she observed. With every step she took toward him, the sound of his soul crying out--begging for her comfort--for her rescue--grew unbelievably louder in her mind. . . . She just had to try to survive the excrutiating pain of this charade long enough to break him out of his dangerously-misguided efforts; she took the direct route, praying it would be the fastest. "That's a lie." Her eyes were strong. 

He was trying to keep from audibly choking back his tears, still attempting to keep up his brutal mask. "No. It isn't." 

She smiled slightly, as she approached him. She could feel his desperate need for her--his unbelievably intense pain begging to be soothed. His eyes were rimmed with red. . . . As his emotionless masks went, this one needed some work. "Yes. It is." 

She was entering his kitchen now. He was trying not to shake. He turned his back on and tried to ignore her, as he fought for control. He kept his voice cold but low, to keep it from breaking. "Go home, Nikita." 

She reached him finally and stroked a hand over his bare shoulder, feeling his slight tremble beneath her fingers. His muscles were so tense with his effort at control that they were practically knotted. "You can't fool me, Michael. Not now. Not after the last few days." He half-turned his head toward her. "I know you love me, even if you want to deny it." 

His voice was rough with pent-up emotion. "No, I don't." 

She kissed his shoulder gently, and he had to try desperately to restrain his gasp. "Tell me what this is about, Michael. Tell me why you felt you needed to put on this act." 

He closed his eyes. Her soft fingers on his back stroked over his soul, healing the raw pain there. He wanted to fight her off, but he couldn't. . . . She had broken through to him yet again. 

He wanted to turn her away--for her own safety, wanted to do anything to protect her, but she had made it obvious with a few determined words and the stroke of her soft fingers that all his denials of her were useless. . . . She knew. 

He made one last effort, his voice emotion-filled. "Please leave, `Kita--for your own safety." He swallowed heavily. "Don't let me destroy you." 

She closed her eyes, wishing to God that she could break him of this habit of dangerous self-denial that he insisted on living out. She opened them again and leaned forward to kiss his shoulder once more, leaving her lips close to his skin as she spoke. "I'm not leaving you, Michael." 

He closed his eyes for a second, as he turned to her. His look was tear-filled, as he focused on her. "Why not?" He was incapable of understanding her desire to stay with him. 

She tilted her head up to him and brushed a kiss across his lips. He sighed from the warmth of it and closed his eyes--nipping unconsciously at her lips for a second; she was already mending--was sewing back together--the fragments of his soul that he had just so cruelly severed. 

She finally answered him, as he looked at her more softly. "Because I love you." She saw that he was about to speak again. "And there's no reason for me to." 

He closed his eyes, unable to process her love. She stroked her hand across his shoulder and leaned up to kiss one of his eyelids tenderly, to his soft groan. "Come on," she started leading him across the room with her. "Let's go sit down and talk about this." He opened his eyes and quietly consented to her desires. 

************* 

She led them over to the spot they usually ate in and sat down, holding on to his hand to lead him to the floor, as well; he followed obediently. She let go of his hand and leaned against a wall before stroking her hand over his cheek, as he quietly settled himself. "What was this about, Michael? What brought this on?" 

He closed his eyes once more. "Don't let me hurt you, `Kita. . . . Please." He was begging her quietly. 

Her heart wanted to break at the pain and fear written in his beautiful features. "You haven't--not here." She sighed. "Except for the times you've tried to push me away." 

He focused on her deeply. "And last night?" 

She was confused; she began softly stroking his temple. "What about it?" 

His eyes were serious. "I was brutal." 

"And?" she asked flippantly--not seeing the problem yet. Her thumb ran back down his cheek. 

He closed his eyes and groaned, pulling her hand away from him--gently but firmly--and returning it to her. "I've made you want that." 

She laughed a little. "You? You think *you* created my desires?" He looked back at her, as she shook her head. "I've got news for you--my needs were mine before I ever met you." 

He stroked her cheek lightly, still wanting to make his point to her. "How many men would you let do some of the things I have the last few days?" 

"One . . . you." 

He nodded. "Exactly." 

She sighed angrily. "No. You're wrong." She answered the fears behind his statements. "I didn't let you do anything to me because you insisted or forced me or because I was talked into it. The reason I wanted *you* to do those things is because I trust you; I *know* you won't hurt me sexually, and I've *never* been disappointed in that knowledge." She grabbed the hand on her cheek and kissed its palm. "I want *you* to do these things, because I love and desire you--because my need for you runs so strong." 

He was still unconvinced, his eyes still red. "But it was me who forced you to want me. . . . I seduced you into needing me." 

She laughed slightly again. "No. You didn't." He was about to interrupt once more. "No, Michael. You've tried to seduce me before, yes; you've used your considerable valentine skills to try to lure me into feeling the things you wanted me to. But you did *not* force or convince me to love you." Her voice became a little softer. "That happened entirely on its own . . . because of who you are." 

He was choking back tears a little, shaking his head. "There is *nothing* in me to love, Nikita . . . nothing." He withdrew his hand from her and started to rise. 

She leaned forward and put her hands on his shoulders, holding him in place--forcing him to stay. "You're wrong, Michael--very wrong." 

His eyes challenged her. "Name three things." 

Her hand stroked over his cheek and she leaned back again, since he had given up trying to leave for the moment. "Alright--the fact that you never *honestly* tried to seduce me--that you always pulled back, denying your own desires, when it would have been so easy just to satisfy yourself and leave me." 

He interrupted her, shaking his head. "A single night with you could never satisfy me." 

"I know. That's part of my point." She lowered her hand from him, taking one of his in her own, stroking it. "You've never been happy unless I am. Last night, in fact, you took that a little too far." Her eyes were a little stern--referring to his temporary refusal of pleasure. 

He looked down. "I'm sorry." 

She raised his hand to her lips and kissed it tenderly before returning it to her lap. "Don't be; just don't do it again." 

He closed his eyes briefly, smiling slightly, before refocusing on her. As much he wanted to deny it, he knew she was right. 

She smiled back at him and went on, understanding his agreement. "Reason number two: you've tried to protect me at the possible cost of your own life before--more times than I probably even know about." She shook her head. "You don't even think about it as a trade-off." 

His eyes looked a little afraid, knowing there was no way to deny this. He wanted to argue that he had done it solely to keep her to himself--which was partly true, but he knew that she was also right--that he would have sacrificed his own life more than once to save hers . . . that he would still do it in the future, if he had to. 

She continued, making sure he couldn't deny her argument. "How much of your time do you spend thinking about protecting me, Michael? How often have you played with a mission profile to keep me out of danger? How many times did you put yourself in between me and Operations or Madeline--even taking the blame for my deviations from profile?" 

He just watched her, unable to answer--eyes still a little afraid of her accuracy. 

"Good. Point taken." She smiled. "In fact, the times you've hurt me most have almost always been in your attempts to look after me physically, have been because of your fears for my life." 

His look grew cold; he had found something, finally, that he could pounce on. "You think I did that entirely for you?" 

She laughed a little at his attempt to turn himself into the irredeemable villian again; she was shaking her head. "No, not at all. I'm well aware that you were frequently thinking of your own needs." 

He began to push away to stand up, feeling that he had won his argument. 

She shook her head, pressing her point. "No, Michael." She leaned forward to hold him in place again, until he gave up trying to leave once more. "You weren't only thinking of yourself." She lowered her hands from his shoulders, laughing slightly--ironically--again. "If you had been, you could have used me for sex or whatever else at a dozen different points. Instead, you always pushed me away." 

He shook his head; his words were ironic but true. "Only to keep you nearby." 

She looked at him seriously. "That wasn't all of it, and you know it. You also did it for the same, stupid reasons you're trying to do it now." He stared down at the floor. "You're trying to `protect' me from you--like you're some sort of demon I need to be saved from." 

He returned her look intensely. "I am." 

She let out a low growl. "No, you're not." She went on, before he could stop her. "God knows, you're not perfect, but you're not exactly death incarnate, either--no matter what Section's led you to believe." 

He knew he couldn't argue her out of this belief, but he could also never see himself as she did. He was silent. 

Her eyes grew pain-filled, her voice softer, as she went on to press her point. "I *hate* it when you push me away, Michael. *That* hurts me far worse than your being close to me ever would have--whatever the results." She sighed, trying to get through to him. "Please *try* to remember that, in the future." 

He closed his eyes briefly and looked down. He wanted to agree--if only to take away the pain in her eyes, understanding where his desire to protect her in this way always seemed to lead. He knew, however, that he couldn't promise--knew the chances of his keeping that promise were slim if he had made it . . . however much he felt--right now--that he should listen to her plea. 

She took his hand and lifted it to her lips again, kissing it once more before placing it on her lap. "Just *try*," she stressed. "Third reason . . ." 

She paused, and he looked up at her, wondering if she had run out of excuses for her love for him. She shook her head, denying the claim in his look. "It's hard to put into words." She sighed, trying. "It's your soul, Michael--who you are beneath the mask." 

His eyes focused on her lovingly but unbelievingly. She shook her head again, attempting to explain. "I've been in love with that man since very shortly after I met him. The only thing that kept me from telling you sooner was that it took me a few years before you let me understand that he was real--that he *was* you." 

He closed his eyes--giving up on his self-anger finally, her words having overwhelmed him. He couldn't share her tender view of him, but the love she offered him so plainly had wrapped around his heart. A tear rolled down his cheek. 

She let go of his hand to stroke her thumb over his face, wiping away the tear. "You see, Michael? You only asked for three; I could give you a lot more." 

He refocused on her, still incapable of understanding. "And all the times I've hurt you?" 

She nodded. "They're still there." She swallowed a little. "I still feel them." 

His serious look tried to drive home his point. 

She shook her head and sighed, trying to explain. "I'm not saying that I'm going to forgive everything you do." She smiled a little. "You can forget about that." He smiled in return, in spite of himself. "But--even at the times I hate you--I'll still love you, as well." 

The barbed wire he had erected around his heart fell away at her words. He swallowed back his tears and turned his head to kiss her hand, his eyes shining with love. She had torn down all his walls again--had disposed of them as though they were made of tissue paper, instead of the strongest sort of mortar. 

He loved her so much. He realized again that he couldn't deny it by simply trying to turn her away. 

He needed her comfort, as well--desperately; he knew it now, allowed himself to understand it. He had only damaged them both yet again by trying to rip them apart--a task Section was only too fond of doing itself, one which they would no doubt work on again, once the two of them were forced to return. 

He couldn't think about that now, though. For now, he simply needed to allow himself to take the love his angel so freely, so--to his eyes--incomprehensibly, offered. He maneuvered himself to lie down, his head on her lap. He held on to one of her crossed legs--rubbing his cheek against it. 

She smiled and leaned down to kiss his temple. "Now, this is a Michael I could love all the time." He looked at her with such pain in his eyes, and she leaned in to give him a gentle kiss before sitting up. 

He was incapable of understanding her beauty. "You love me, even when I'm weak?" 

She smiled slightly and leaned in to kiss his temple again before beginning to stroke his hair. "You're never weak when you do this. This is love--not weakness," she clarified. He looked up at her. "And no, despite what Section would say, they're *not* the same thing." 

He knew, at the moment, that she was right; he knew that he felt so much stronger when she was near him. . . . It was only when he pushed her away that he wanted--desperately--to die. 

They sat there like that for the next several hours, not wanting to move. Nikita stroked her hand over his soft hair, trying to transfer her love and strength to him--trying to give him the comfort his soul so deeply needed. The pain he had given her earlier was washed away here--was made utterly inconsequential, when he proved those cruel words to be utter lies like this. . . . So long as he opened himself to her, in fact, she knew she could survive anything. 

Michael tried to follow her angelic example; he wanted--so much--to be the man she needed. And, right now, she was happy to comfort her self-wounded beloved. . . . He was determined, then, to take what advantages he could gain from her sympathy; he was allowing himself, for once, to be washed in the warm comfort of her soul. 

************ 

Eventually, of course, they had to move. Michael finally rose to take a shower, leaving Nikita to ponder what had brought on this change of mood. She sighed. She was beginning to understand, more and more, that they were both truly conflicted. 

Part of the problem, she knew, arose from Section's expectations of them. It was hard to be close to each other when their masters couldn't understand that need--when they saw them only as machines; after all, machines didn't have the spiritual requirements they did--they didn't rely on one another for comfort and emotional sustenance. . . . The rest of her conflict, too, she understood, came from the neglect and abuse of her childhood--from the feeling of worthlessness which Michael's frequent betrayals had only built upon. 

For him, however, the problem really all seemed to lie in Section--in what they had made him. He truly did see himself, frequently, as a machine--as a robot programmed only to do his makers' bidding. When he deviated from his training, therefore, it worried him--endangered the schizophrenic self-image which Section had built. 

The results for him, indeed, were emotionally wracking. He knew he needed Nikita, but he didn't understand that need; he knew he loved her, but he had been told that love was just a delusion--a lie some people fooled themselves into believing. 

The fact that she wanted him, too, could only be read in one way by this programmed part of himself. If she felt desire for him, it was because he had placed it there--was because he had worked his valentine charms on her. It actually frightened him to think that she loved him for what was inside him; it just went too strongly against his lengthy training to believe that there *was* something inside him which Section hadn't placed there--that he had something inherent in him . . . that he had soul. 

She was coming to understand all of this lately, and it made her unspeakably sad. She wanted . . . needed him to see his own inner beauty--and the outer appeal which reflected it. She smiled, her mind working. . . . She was definitely forming some plans for tonight. 

She realized, however, that she needed to discuss a few more things with him first. When he emerged from his shower, she looked up at him seriously. "Can I ask you a question?" 

"Of course." He smiled slightly; she had calmed him--had helped him feel more sane. . . . That was a miracle unto itself. He proceeded to the kitchen to make them some lunch. 

She shook her head in self-anger, seeing where he was going--her train of thought momentarily side-tracked. "I should have been doing that." 

He smiled softly to himself. "That's not a question." 

She laughed quietly. "No, but . . ." 

He looked back at her, as he took out some necessities for salad. "I don't want you to do this." 

"Is my cooking that bad?" she asked, with a smile. 

He shook his head, his eyes simultaneously soft and serious. "You know that's not it. I want to do this for you . . . for us." 

Her eyes were warm at his words, but she continued explaining. "I just got caught up in my thoughts." 

He nodded, returning his attention to his work. "What were you thinking about?" There were a few more seconds when he didn't hear anything, as she paused to wonder how--or, indeed, whether--to start. "Ni-kita," he prompted her softly, his physical focus still elsewhere. 

She sighed, giving in. "Why did you push me away, after our other two nights together? Why were you so distant, so soon after?" She swallowed, knowing the answer to her next question but needing to hear it from him anyway, her voice getting softer. "What I felt between us then was real, wasn't it?" 

He closed his eyes, as a tear rolled down the cheek she couldn't see from her position. Her question had struck on memories that were still so tender. 

He opened his eyes again to resume his work and took a deep breath before answering her. "Those aren't simple questions." 

She nodded, leaning her temple against the wall, as she watched him. "We've got time." 

He looked up at her, and she saw the tear on his cheek. Her heart clenched at the sight, as he began explaining, his voice very soft. "Those two nights mean more to me than almost any other time of my life. They mean more to me than anything except the last few days." He swallowed, his eyes still focusing on her with deep emotion. "They're the only times I've ever known real happiness." 

She swallowed, watching him. "Michael . . ." 

He shook his head and turned his attention back to his work. "No. Let me finish." He paused for a second to breathe; when he continued, his voice was still very soft. "With both of those nights, making love to you obliterated every fear I felt." He sighed. "It told me everything I needed to know about your . . . feelings for me." 

He swallowed back tears, continuing, as she listened quietly and deeply. "On both of those nights, though, once we had finished making love, all of the fears returned--stronger than they had been before. I knew that you cared, that I hadn't been fooling myself." He moved slowly from working on creating beds of lettuce to cutting tomatoes, his attention truly absorbed elsewhere. "But that only made my fears worse." 

She was quiet, letting him speak. He sighed, in response--forcing himself to go on. "I knew that we couldn't be together." He swallowed back tears again, remembering. "In Paris, I thought I would lose you the next day . . . that I might never see you again. On the Armel mission," he swallowed once more, his voice getting even softer, "all I could think about the next morning was that there were still so many lies between us--was still so much you didn't know." 

He ceased his work and looked back up at her. "You were so angry with me, when I pulled back, after I brought you back in." His eyes shone in pain--remembering the circumstances of her return to Section--the brutal beating he had given her to simulate interrogation. "You had reason to be," he agreed, "but I was afraid that you might never forgive me for it a second time." 

She swallowed and nodded, her mind going down a slightly different path; she looked down at the floor. "What about Jurgen, Michael? Were you trying to push me toward him from the beginning? Was it a set up all along?" 

His eyes were wide. He was shaking his head. . . . It was all an incident, too, that he would rather have forgotten. "*No.*" 

She looked up at him, asking him--without words--to explain further. 

He looked down and then back to his preparations, not able to keep eye contact. "I didn't want you to fall in love with him," he said quietly. 

She watched him analytically. "You were afraid I would?" 

He nodded, still focused away from her. "Why wouldn't you?" 

She was silent for a minute--looking a little confused, and he looked up at her to continue explaining. "Jurgen was a good man." He knew she knew that, but he was agreeing honestly so that he could begin to describe his fears. "He was much more like you than I am." He sighed. "He could give you love openly." He was shaking his head. "He wouldn't have manipulated or lied, wouldn't have hurt you in order to protect you." His eyes were sad but resigned. "You would have been much better off with him." 

"But I didn't want him," she pointed out. 

"You didn't?" he questioned pointedly. 

She didn't back down. "I was attracted to him, yes--both physically and in spirit. I liked the way his mind worked." She smiled, remembering, her eyes focusing on some point in the distance. "I liked that he could laugh." She looked back at him, her look still honest. "But I never would have been involved with him, if you hadn't pushed me away in the first place--if you hadn't tried to force me away from him out of jealousy." 

He swallowed a little, not quite willing to believe. "You didn't love him?" 

She shook her head. "Not like I do you." She sighed. "I cared for him as a friend; I enjoyed being with him. . . . I could have even happily been his lover, if it weren't for that night in Paris." 

His eyes were focused on her, a captive to her words. "What do you mean?" 

She sighed again and swallowed, bracing herself to tell him the truth of her heart. "I'd never made love before that night, Michael--had never really understood the term." She nodded slightly. "I'd had sex, of course--was certainly no innocent," she took a deep breath, "but I'd never known what it was like to . . . feel--to love that deeply." 

She shook her head, cutting off any attempts by him to speak, and continued her explanation. "I needed you that night more than I'd ever needed anyone before--more than I'd ever imagined needing anyone." She smiled a little. "Suddenly, all of my desires weren't just physical." Her voice got softer. "I needed you in my soul; I needed to hold you so deep inside myself--in every sense--that you'd never be able to leave me again." Her voice was very small. "I needed your love to survive." 

His eyes held such incredible love that it was hard to focus on them; she looked at the floor. "That was why it hurt me so much, when you pulled away. . . . I began to believe that I'd dreamed it, that that night had never happened--that I'd made it all up." 

She looked back up at him. "You were so *cold* to me after that--so distant." She was explaining, neither accusing nor excusing. "I began to feel used." She sighed. "When Jurgen tried to befriend me, and you tried to push me away from him, I went to him to try to hurt you--because *I* was hurting." She nodded, answering their joint comment. "It was childish, but so was your jealousy." 

He nodded and looked away, appropriately chastised. She continued. "The only reason I really regret it all is that I was hurting *him*. And, even though he understood--was very patient with me, he deserved a lot better than what I gave him." 

Michael nodded again, understanding her words, even though he was hurt by the truth of them. He looked back at her to answer her last statement. "No. He knew there was no one better." He sighed. "He knew a good soul, when he saw one." 

She leaned forward, wondering whether she could make a point. "And what did he think of you, Michael? What was he like as a trainer?" 

He looked away, back to his work, not really wanting to remember his days as a recruit. "He was . . . tough." 

She laughed softly. She knew that one. "And?" 

He got out another ingredient. "He was patient," he said softly. She had stirred up all his old memories--had reminded him of a fact that he had only learned later in his career in Section--that it had only been Jurgen and Madeline who had argued that he not be cancelled, when he hadn't been adjusting well early on. 

He remembered everything now--remembered Jurgen's frequently repeated words, when he hadn't been able to handle the pain of his new "life"--"Find it, Michael--find the place." It had been his way of telling him to create a part of himself which didn't feel--one which just responded to orders intelligently but without emotion, something Jurgen had long understood from his military days. 

Nikita was still waiting for him to go on. He sighed, trying to pull himself out of his reverie. "He never told me to get rid of emotion," he continued quietly to her. "He just told me find a place to store it." He looked back up at her. "His training saved my life." 

"And your soul," she thought to herself. 

He swallowed and looked back at his preparations; he was close to finishing them. "I wish I hadn't needed to help destroy him," he regretted, thinking partly in Section terms once more. He sighed, speaking much more softly. "You'd have been better off with him." 

Something which resembled a growl rose from her. "Michael, I *didn't love him*." He was still quiet. "And if you're regretting not dying that night he did, I might remedy that myself," she warned. 

He blinked back tears and then looked up at her. "Why didn't you try to stop me that night, `Kita? When the charge had to be set--why did you just let me start to go?" 

She closed her eyes, as a tear started to fall; she opened them again to focus on the floor. "I don't know." She shook her head. "I've never understood what I did then." 

She sighed and looked back up at him. "I was in shock, I suppose--from your betrayal, from Jurgen's rejection of me when he lost his insurance from Operations' manipulations. . . . I don't think I'd really had the time to process what was happening." 

She swallowed, smiling a little, looking at the floor. "Maybe, sometimes, too, I tend to think of you as invincible--as the man that can't die." She focused on him again, her eyes unspeakably sad. "Other times, I remember all too well that you can." 

He smiled at her, finally understanding somewhat. He brought their hearts of palm salads over to her and sat with her. As he was watching her eat contentedly--her pain and guilt having been salved by his loving look, he reached a hand out to stroke over her cheek. "I'm sorry for everything, Nikita." 

She swallowed and then kissed his palm. "Don't apologize, Michael." Her eyes were both serious and playful. "Just don't do it again." 

He closed his eyes, giving her cheek a last stroke with his thumb before withdrawing it. He looked back at her and nodded slightly--a sign that he would try but could make no promises. 

She nodded, as well, in understanding. As much as she would have liked to have him swear in all honesty that he wouldn't repeat his offenses, she knew that was unrealistic. . . . And she had no desire to hear him to lie to her again. 

************* 

They spent the rest of the day very quietly. After lunch, they spent a few hours propped against the wall, just holding each other. . . . And it was amazing how much comfort they each drew from this simple action. 

After another wonderful--if much simpler--dinner together and another few hours of this quiet intimacy, as well, Nikita decided to put the plan she had formed earlier into action. She turned her head to kiss down the side of Michael's face; he closed his eyes and sighed happily at her gentle touch. "Do you trust me, Michael?" she whispered before moving to suckle at his earlobe. 

He let out a very soft "uhhh" at the sensation, his eyes closed. He tensed a little, though, at her words. He was wondering whether they were in for a replay of her possession of him the other night; as much as he had loved every second of it then, his desires were much less feral tonight. "Yes," he answered her finally, looking back at her. 

She pulled back from his gaze and kissed his cheek again before refocusing on him. "Don't be afraid, Michael. I won't hurt you." She smiled. "I'm not going to ask for your submission--just your pleasure." 

His eyes looked a little confused. She stood up and held out her hand to ask him to join her; he did. She removed hers from his grasp and stroked it lightly over his shoulder. "I won't be rough with you, my love." She kissed around his face and over his jaw, as he held her lightly to him. "But I do want you to agree to answer to me for awhile." 

He sighed at her touch and kissed her temple. He didn't know what she was up to, but he sensed her tenderness, and it made him feel terribly loved. He relaxed a little. "I agree." 

She pulled back to look at him and took his face in her hands, stroking his skin tenderly. Then, she pulled him gently into a deep, soft kiss. He sighed intensely from love and held her to him--returning her erotic tenderness in full. 

They stayed like that for some minutes, just enjoying the feeling of exploring the sweet depths of the other. Their tongues searched the soft joy of one another, as they held each other gently in the kiss. 

Finally, however, she pulled back. She placed one more soft kiss on his lips and then took his hand. "Come with me, Michael," she smiled. 

He looked back at her with intense love and let himself be willingly led. As much as he loved her feral, insanely passionate side, he loved even more this tender part of her soul--loved that she could arouse him so thoroughly with so little effort. 

They arrived in the bedroom, and she turned around to continue the soft kiss she had broken from; they both moaned slightly, as their lips touched again, as the depth of their love flowed through them--connecting them to each other. They no longer really felt--after these last several days--that they had separate souls; they both felt bound together--mated for life. 

Nikita's fingers ran down over his shoulders, brushing past the sculpted lines of his chest and then down to roam lightly over the front of his thighs. She felt his arousal beating against her earnestly; she moaned softly. 

He groaned more loudly, through the kiss. He adored being touched by her--loved the way her soft touch brought him to life--body and soul. He needed, though, desperately, to feel her skin against his; he couldn't stand another second of the barriers which kept her from him. He reached for the collar of her robe. 

She caught his hands and pulled them away, pulling back from the kiss to explain. "No." She placed one more soft kiss on his lips; her eyes met his. "Tonight, let me lead." 

He moaned slightly, wanting desperately to be close to her--needing her fiercely. "`Kita." 

"Ssh," she soothed, pulling him toward her to kiss him once more. "I won't ignore any of our needs tonight," her gentle voice assured him. 

He agreed but still watched her pleadingly. "Ssh," she breathed again, kissing him softly once more. "Trust me." She kissed him more deeply once again, as he held her to him. 

She pulled back, placing another soft kiss on his lips before beginning to gift him with gentle kisses on all of the beautiful features of his face. With each kiss, too, came a murmured endearment. "You're so beautiful, Michael," she kissed over his temples, "so perfect." Her lips ran over his cheeks. 

She moved soft kisses down the line of his nose. "I wish you could see yourself as I do," she whispered across his soft lips--not letting him engage her in a kiss, "wish that you could understand what I feel when I look at you." 

She moved on to his eyelids--which had closed, on his sigh, at the variety of incredible, tender sensations she was giving him. "No other man will ever have me," she kissed over his chin, "no one else will ever see my soul bared as intimately as you." 

He moaned, and she continued her soft torment. "Sometimes, when I look at you," she murmured, running feather-like kisses along his jaw line. "I think you're just too beautiful to bear." She began returning to his lips finally. "You're everything my life will always need." 

Her words washed over and through him, causing another slight moan to erupt from his throat. He felt her tender kisses in his soul; they became part of him. . . . He just wished--desperately--he could share her belief in them, that he could accept the beauty she was offering him. 

She kissed him deeply once again, but--sensing his reluctance to believe--she pulled back to look at him, her hand stroking over his cheek. "Let me make love to you, Michael," she asked quietly. "Just let yourself receive for one night--let me please you." 

He groaned, his eyes tormented. He shook his head. "Please, `Kita, no." He didn't deserve this gentle treatment--this devotion. That she might need him physically he could accept, to a certain extent, but her devotion to his soul was another thing. "I'm not worth it." 

She pulled him into another deep kiss--this one more passionate--and a bit more commanding--than the last. He groaned and held her in it, needing her terribly, despite his denials. 

She grazed her teeth across his lip very lightly, as she let him go, to his aroused moan. She looked at him seriously. "No, Michael, that's the point--you are, . . . and I need you to accept it." 

He shook his head slightly in response, simply unable to give her this. 

She put her hand on his cheek. "This is more than a request," she went on--softly but seriously. "It's a necessity." 

Her eyes focused deeply on him, her voice becoming more quiet. "You scared me last night, Michael--not by anything you did, but by what you almost *didn't* do." She stroked over his face gently. "I have to know that I can please you, or I'll never be able to truly respond to you again." 

His eyes were terrified, as she continued. "If I think I can't make you happy, something inside of me will die." She knew it was emotional blackmail, but it was also completely true, and she needed him to understand it. He *had* to learn how beautiful he was--for his own and their relationship's sake--and he couldn't do that if he denied himself pleasure; she couldn't teach him if he did that. 

He closed his eyes. What she was asking for seemed so simple, but it wasn't--not even vaguely. So much of his own pleasure rested on hers, after all. She aroused him almost cataclysmically, yes, but he didn't want her to be the one with the responsibility to please. Section had always taught him that that was *his* job; it was training he found hard to overcome now--especially with someone who so deeply deserved pleasure. "`Kita," he begged for reprieve. 

She shook her head. "No, Michael. You either allow me to please you *and* myself--let me have that control, or I just can't feel what I need to tonight." 

He closed his eyes more tightly, tears forming. "`Kita," he moaned. God, he loved her, but he couldn't stand the thought of his beautiful angel serving him; he was a priest at her temple, not the other way around. The few times he had allowed that reversal *had* been utterly overwhelming, but they had been more than he felt he should have consented to already. 

She leaned in toward him to kiss his cheek softly--a touch he felt in his heart and soul. "Michael . . . please." She paused for a second, her voice softer. "Section might see you as a whore, but I don't." He looked back at her, eyes pleading. She shook her head. "It doesn't mean I'm one either. Tonight, I just want you to remember that we're lovers, . . . but I want to be the one who leads our pleasure." 

A tear ran down his cheek. He loved her so much it made him ache. His arousal throbbed for her--wanting to join him yet again with the other half of his soul. 

He saw in her eyes that there was no way out. . . . He couldn't stand the thought of her not responding to him; that was a nightmare--one of the most frightening he could imagine. As much as he felt that this wasn't her place, therefore--that he was the one in charge of pleasing and she in charge of being pleased, as much as he knew that she could . . . should give him aching releases simply by being near him, by willingly allowing his touch--he couldn't deny her plea. 

He nodded. She smiled back at him gently and leaned in to kiss the tear off his cheek, running her tongue over it to taste his sorrow. He moaned at the gesture. "Please, Michael . . . please. . . . Let yourself feel--for me." 

He gave in to her soft words, finally--his body and soul needing the love and comfort she offered. She felt his surrender, and kissed him gently once more. 

She began her exploration of him by running butterfly kisses under the line of his jaw, her tongue coming out from time to time to taste his skin. He held her to him in response, and she felt his moans reverberate against her lips. She gave him a gentle nip, followed by the soothing stroke of her tongue, and his moan grew louder. 

She began to seduce him with words, as well. "You're beautiful, my Michael." She gave wet kisses down the cord of his neck. "Every part of you was formed by God, was made to love." 

He let out a sighing moan, and she retrieved from the pocket of her robe the oil she had hidden there earlier--the healing, heavy liquid he had soothed her with last night. She opened it and used her thumb to spread some over the joint of his neck and shoulder, where the mark she had given him was still very visible; she locked eyes with him for a second. "I don't need any aphrodisiacs to make me want you," she told him seriously, her thumb caressing him, "but I do need you to care about your own comfort, as you do mine." 

He leaned his head back and moaned. "`Kita." The combination of her touch and the amazing oil was incredible. He felt the warmth of it soaking into his skin, its erotic properties heating his senses--making him even more open and eager for her touch . . . making him less afraid that he would somehow damage her by letting her please him. 

"I love you, Michael," she whispered after watching his face for a few seconds. She dropped her head and placed her warm, wet mouth over the spot she had just healed--the spot which was so especially sensitive from the oil. 

"`Kita," he groaned throatily, as he held her to him. She suckled him lovingly, her tongue tracing lines over the area which made him groan again. His arousal throbbed more strongly against her--once again desperately wanting her attention. 

"Mmm," she moaned, as she lifted her head from him after a few minutes. His eyes were still closed, his breathing shaky. "I love the way you taste." 

He groaned loudly and looked at her, his eyes liquid and loving. His soul was hers. 

She smiled at him and kissed him again, while her thumb began to spread the miracle oil over a few other over-used spots. He moaned against her lips. 

She leaned back and continued to trail her mouth down him, running her tongue over the tiny bristles on his neck. She suckled at a few of its most delicate spots, as he held her to him. 

She moved then to suckle at a particularly delicate and sensitive spot--a bit more strongly, to his moan. "I love the feel of you in my mouth, love tasting your skin," she whispered before suckling him again. 

He moaned at both her words and the softness of her touch. He was already entranced; he never wanted this to end. 

Her thumbs were teasing the liquid comfort into his nipples, the oil temporarily stored in a pocket. She ran her tongue down the bristles of his neck. "Mmm," she moaned. Her teeth ran lightly over another sensitive spot. "You have no idea how often I dream of doing this." She suckled him again for a minute. "Sometimes I just end up watching you, wishing that I could feel the wonderful, rough texture of your skin against my tongue. . . . Mmmm," she moaned again, suckling once more, "you're like a living fantasy, my love." 

Michael was becoming mindless--his breathing shallow and labored. He loved the feel of her sweet, knowledgeable mouth on his flesh--loved knowing that she wanted to do this for him. "Yes," he moaned, holding her to him. 

She ran her teeth up off of him and then stroked her tongue along this sensitive spot before moving to suckle at the crook of his neck--on the opposite side as before. "Do you like this?" she murmured, before suckling him more strongly. 

He let out a moaning, "Ohhhh." He panted. "Yes." He held her head to him. 

She marked him very lightly with her teeth, running them over him briefly. "Good," she stated before continuing her work. He groaned loudly, holding her to the spot more strongly. 

The simple sensations she gave him were still too intense. He needed her to move on; her torture was too slow--left him too aroused. "`Kita," he sighed, trying to gently push her further down his body. 

"Mmmm," she moaned again. "Yes, Michael--ask me." 

"Uhhhh," he let out, as her tongue ran a line down his chest--very lightly. 

She continued to encourage his words. "You're like a sculptor's dream." Her thumbs teased his nipples, while her tongue continued to explore his chest. "You were made to be desired." Her tongue ran down his breastbone. 

He was moaning desperately. She looked up at his eyes. "But only I was made to please you." 

He moaned loudly and let out a hissing, "Yessss." The desire and joy in her eyes was too much for him. "Please, my `Kita . . . I need your mouth here." He helped move her on his chest. 

She smiled at him knowingly and happily and then leaned forward to run her teeth over the nipple he had led her to--the one which was so achingly in need from the oil that it seemed to be calling her name. 

Her move inflamed him--made him need even more of her. "Yes, . . . please," he moaned. 

She kept eye contact with him, as she suckled. His breathing became very erratic, his pulse rate jumping--his arousal fighting its confinement. She looked so needy and so erotic at his nipple. 

He ran his hands in her hair and held her there, his breathing unsteady. "Do you like tasting me?" His eyes begged for her honesty. 

Her suction against him grew, as she groaned in response to his question. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back again. "Uhhh, God . . . good," he moaned. 

She continued suckling him firmly, while her hands ran down his thighs and came up to play near his arousal--not quite touching him. He looked back down at her, eyes wide. "`Kita," he moaned. 

"Mmmm," she moaned in response, as her head lifted from his tender bud. She smiled at him and then ran her teeth over it once more before moving on to its twin. Her hand began stroking him through his pants. 

"`Ki-ta," he groaned. His hips thrust at her, loving her touch. He watched her suckle at his other nipple now, her very heated eyes still on his. "Aaaaah," he moaned. "Yes." 

She ran her teeth over him lightly here before she stroked her tongue back over him, a smile on her face at his moan. She stood back up, watching him, her hand still teasing his need. Her smile grew deeper. "I love touching you, Michael. Your body was made to receive--was made to be loved." Her look turned serious. "I want you to let it." 

He moaned again, his tongue coming out to touch his lip slightly--eyes wide, breathing even more unsteady. "Yes," he begged. If this was what he was made for, he wanted to discover it with her tonight. 

She smiled at him again. Her hand stopped stroking him and joined its companion at the waistband of his pants. She began to undo them, her eyes still meeting his, as his breathing grew increasingly ragged. "I love undressing you." She loosened the waistband on his pants, ready to reveal him. "It's like unwrapping a wonderful present--the one I *always* dreamed of." She smiled seductively. "It's like Christmas." 

"`Kita," he moaned, completely caught in her beautiful web of passion. 

She smiled even more temptingly and knelt down before him. She placed wet kisses along his abdomen--moving them down the line of dark hair that led to his arousal. "Mmmm," she moaned. 

His eyes were fixed on her--entranced by every move. "Uhhh," he moaned. 

She smiled against his skin. "Mmmm, you taste even better here," she purred. Her hands began to lower his only garment, and she sat back lightly to appreciate him, as he was exposed to her view. He let out another small groan, watching. 

His pants were dropped to the floor, and he stepped out of them. She looked up at him with seductive eyes. 

He panted slightly, while her hands reached around to grab his soft curves. He hadn't even noticed her spreading the oil on them, too aroused by the look of passion in her eyes; the feeling caught him off guard, therefore, and he let out a moaning shout at the sensation. "Yes!" 

Her hands smoothed the arousing, liquid warmth into his soft curves--soothing them from their rough treatment of the last few days. It had always been a sensitive spot, but the seductive oil made the skin there almost tremble with need. He was still moaning. 

She smiled up at him. "Good?" 

"`Kita," he moaned in response. His arousal bobbed more strongly near her mouth. 

She smiled at it and began placing small kisses along it--starting from the base, her tongue running little licks along him, as well. "Mmmm," she murmured. "This is where I like tasting you the most, Michael." She smiled up at him and then ran the tip of her tongue around the sensitive head. He groaned aloud. "Mmmm," she murmured again, "definitely my favorite spot." She slipped the head into her mouth and suckled him, keeping eye contact. 

He was letting out short little groans, his whole length throbbing more strongly at the wonderful feeling of her mouth on him. His hands began lightly stroking through her hair. 

She let him go temporarily--to his groan--and then began running the breadth of her tongue up and down over the tip. "`Ki-ta," he moaned hoarsely. 

She slipped him back into her mouth for another second, suckling briefly, before letting him go again. "How's it feel, Michael?" 

He groaned loudly. His hands gripped her hair more firmly. "`Kita," he moaned desperately. 

She licked over him again, as her hands left his curves. "Tell me," she commanded quietly. 

"Uhhhh," he moaned. There just weren't words for it. 

As he was trying to think of some, however, her hand closed around him--running over him to spread the erotic, sensitizing oil along his length. "Oh God--`Kita!" he moaned, his eyes wide. 

She smiled, as her thumb rubbed the oil over the tip. "How's it feel?" she repeated. She closed her mouth over his tip once again and began suckling. 

He moaned loudly, his arousal beating incredibly strongly for her. He panted for a minute, looking for words. "Like heaven," he moaned finally, . . . and he wasn't attempting hyperbole. 

She smiled at him, suckling him more firmly. 

His eyes started pleading with her. He pulled her away softly, his breathing ragged. "`Kita, please," he begged. "I need to be in you." He panted, trying to continue. "I love it when you taste me--love your warm, wet mouth around me." He groaned, aroused by just the words, and she smiled at him. "But I have to be inside you. . . . Please," he moaned, when she didn't move. 

His eyes were so vulnerable. She smiled at him more broadly and kissed his tip again before standing up. "Lie down, Michael," she ordered. 

He drew her quickly into a deep, passionate, erotic kiss, before pulling back with a groan--following her orders. She let out a moan from the kiss, and her eyes shone even more brightly at him. 

************** 

She came to sit beside him on the bed, her hand caressing his length lightly. She answered the question in his eyes. "Soon," she smiled. She took his hand and put it around her own, as she began to stroke him more seriously. "I want you to show me something first." Her other hand captured his wrist to keep him from pulling away. "Show me how to love you." 

He groaned. She needed no guidance. "You already know." 

She smiled at him patiently. "Good, but I want your guidance anyway." She closed his hand more firmly around her own, as she stroked. 

"Uhhh," he moaned in response. "`Kita," he begged. 

"Indulge me," she purred passionately. A stroke ran down to his base. 

"Uhhhh, `Kita," he moaned again. She was asking for something so personal. It wasn't that there was much modesty left in him; Section had seen to that. But it was somehow a last barrier, anyway. 

"How does it feel?" she asked, watching him with quiet love, as their strokes continued. 

His eyes had completely divested his soul to her. His hand followed her orders, and he groaned at the sensation of it--at her desire to please him--her desire to make even this a shared act. "`Kita, yes," he moaned. 

Their linked hands stroked him more firmly, his hips rising up to meet each thrust. "`Kita, you feel so good," he groaned, his eyes closing, head back. 

She smiled and began caressing his tightened sac with the other hand. "Uhhh," he moaned. His hand came to join her here, as well. 

"Good, Michael, my love," she said warmly. "Guide me." Her mouth came down to begin sucking the tip of his arousal, their hands stroking the entire length of it. 

"Oh God--`Kita!" he moaned. His hips began thrusting faster. Both of his hands encouraged her to be rougher with him. "Please, `Kita, please. . . . Harder." 

Her hard sucks increased, as her hands became ruthless. "Mmm," she moaned. 

He was quickly becoming entirely overwhelmed, his eyes watching her once more. She was so beautiful in her devotion. The way she had allowed him to join her in this erotic act--the way she was asking him to help her love him was overpowering. "More," he moaned. 

She got faster, moaning as well. She loved this--loved pleasing him. His eyes were wide, loving, and perilously aroused. . . . She hoped she was even marginally getting across her point about how much he meant to her. 

Michael's back was beginning to arch into their thrusts, his eyes still caught strongly in her erotic gaze. . . . Yes, she was doing a very good job of getting her point across. 

God, this felt too good. The combination of her warm, incredibly talented mouth and her wonderfully ruthless hands was overpowering him; he encouraged her to go faster. His whole length ached with his coming release--his tip was so sensitized that it made him tremble with every small motion of her tongue. He was giving small grunts of need. 

Her tongue pressed down in the very center of his tip, followed a second later by the slight sting of her teeth on him. She then ran her tongue around the tip in a circle, before her mouth covered it once more; their linked hands grew almost vicious in their rhythm. 

"Uhhhhhh, . . . God," he cried, eyes wide. "`KI-TAAAAAA!" he groaned hoarsely. His whole back arched toward her; his hands left hers to hold the sides of her head--holding her on his trembling shaft in its release, pulling her back just enough, whenever his hips arched at her. . . . It was, by far, the most erotic thing he had ever seen. 

"Mmmm," she moaned, drinking in his warm pleasure. He tasted so wonderful. She loved that she gave him this sort of ecstasy; it aroused her endlessly. 

He continued to thrust into her mouth, as he rode out the singing orgasm she had given him. He had no doubt about it--his soul belonged to her. His whole body was trembling--overwhelmed. 

When he was finally spent, and his groaning had subsided to dim whimpers, she released him with a final lick and looked up at him--very pleased with herself. He opened his eyes to see her Cheshire cat grin for a second and then dragged her head up his body in a quick move to crush her lips to his--needing her desperately. 

He moaned, as he kissed her--searching her sweet--incredibly arousing--mouth sensually. She took hold of his head, as well, and joined him in the kiss. 

After another minute or so, she finally leaned back from him. He looked up at her, chest still heaving--eyes still wide, his pleasure still making him tremble. "Why'd you do that?" 

She smiled at him. "Because I wanted to." She ran her hand slowly back down his body and began to lightly stroke over his length again--stirring it suddenly back to life. 

"Aaaahhh," he moaned, his head back again, as his arousal responded again to his mate. "You could kill men like that." He looked back up at her heatedly. 

She smiled at him, shaking her head. "You're not a normal man, Michael." Her thumb began to stroke his incredibly sensitized tip. "You're the man I love." 

Her words and her actions were leaving him weak. He was light-headed with pleasure. He was beginning to wonder whether it were possible to pass out from sheer arousal. 

"You're lucky I've been trained to survive such pleasure," he smiled heatedly back up at her. His eyes grew slightly more serious. "Although you're the only one I've *ever* needed that training for." 

She smiled back at him and leaned her head down to capture his mouth--gifting him with a deep, erotic kiss. His arousal sprang back into throbbing life at the move, and he moaned. 

He moved her hand away from his shaft and rolled them both over on the bed; the kiss became more demanding. He broke from it for a moment to look at her, his hands untying and opening her robe. "I can't take any more, `Kita. You've tortured me for too long." He extracted her arms from the soft material. "If I'm not in you in the next 60 seconds, I'll go insane." He lifted her up and pulled away the robe to discard it by the bed. 

"Michael," her eyes were bright and wide. This wasn't quite what she had planned. 

"You wanted me to understand how beautiful I am to you," he stated, as his hands stroked down her body, one of them tilting her hips to prepare for his entry. The other hand made certain she was ready for him by entering her slowly; he found her wet and hungry for his shaft. 

She moaned at the sensation--arching her hips at him, as he continued explaining himself calmly. "You've accomplished your goal." He retrieved his hand--to her whimpering moan--and began to suckle his own fingers. He closed his eyes and moaned at the taste of her; he could never get enough of it. She was whimpering at the sight, the tight coiling of need inside her building yet further. 

He looked back at her--one hand still holding her up to him. "This is what I want. This is what I need. I need you . . . only you. Please," he panted. "Let me enter you." His eyes were heated and slightly desperate. 

Her hands grabbed his shoulders. She could see in his eyes that his pleasure *was* her; it aroused her more than she had words for. "Oh God, Michael--yes!!" 

His mouth possessed hers, as he lifted her hips up to him and adjusted his own to ready himself; he was already fully aroused again--her passion and need for him making any attempt at control impossible. Then, the possessive kiss continued, as he began to enter her. 

She moaned against his lips, her hands clawing his shoulders closer to her. He continued his entry, sinking deeper into her, and her hands ran up into his hair; she pressed her lips to his fiercely, her moaning growing deeper. 

Another inch filled her, then another, and another. His entry was slow but unceasing. His beautiful shaft stretched her, as he entered--molding her, yet again, to fit only his contours. 

By the time he had reached her limits and deeper--had filled her with every sweet inch of himself, she was screaming through the kiss, pulling at his hair slightly in her need. He ground himself up into her, and she whimpered--tears of pleasure coming to her eyes. 

She leaned back from the kiss, overwhelmed and groaning. "Oh God, Michael!" 

He forced himself to hold still in her for just a few seconds--giving her just enough time to recover from his entry. Her walls were pulling tightly around him, were conforming themselves to his exact--generous--measurements. His blood felt like it was boiling. . . . God, he loved this--loved his *every* union with her. 

Her head was back, as she groaned; her eyes were closed--her legs wrapped tightly around him. Every cell in her body was alive--was on fire for him. . . . There would never be anyone else. 

He began to give her little licks and bites down the side of her exposed neck. She groaned loudly, and he began the rhythm he wanted--one which left her with little time to recover; his strokes commanded her--hitting her deeply in a way which made her groan out for more. His teeth tormented a sensitive spot on her neck. 

Her entire body was shaking with need for him. Her skin was alive and aching for his touch. She wanted to feel him everywhere . . . wanted to be completely subject to the whims of his pleasure. 

He sensed her surrender, and it aroused him unspeakably. He held her hips and pulled himself repeatedly into her--very deeply, before biting at another spot on her neck and looking up at her. He nipped at her lips, and she refocused on him--her eyes giving him her soul. 

He was groaning slightly. "You wanted me to pay attention to my pleasure, `Kita--to please myself? Well, this is how I do it--with you." His tongue and then his teeth ran a line over her throat, and her head tilted back again. He groaned and rode her deeper. "I please myself by feeling your desire for me--by taking complete control of your body, by giving in to my need." 

She was whimpering beneath him. He attached his teeth at the crook of her neck and suckled her through them. "Mmm," he murmured, now giving her long, hard strokes--his whole length singing through her with every one. 

She was giving pleading whimpers, insane with the feeling of him. Her legs were wrapped even more tightly around him, her hips undulating against him. "Michael, yes," she moaned. "Please, . . . please use me for your pleasure." 

He looked up at her momentarily. "I will," he said straightforwardly before running wet kisses down her breastbone and over to a straining nipple, capturing it possessively in his mouth. 

He suckled her firmly, while she gave screaming groans beneath him. He held her up to him by her soft curves and danced himself within her roughly--deeply. "Oh God, Michael . . . more," she moaned, her hips rocking back against him desperately. 

A growl emanated from his throat, and he held her further up to himself--his thrusts stroking roughly against a precariously sensitive inner spot. He suckled her harder. 

She was screaming. . . . God, he loved that--loved that she would give herself up to his desires--that she *wanted* to. He was using her body in all the ways he so often dreamed of--was possessing her completely. 

Nikita was whimpering beneath him, holding his head to her. "More," she moaned, and his teeth ran over her in just the right way. "Uhhhh," she groaned, arching at him--about four seconds away from orgasm. "More!" she moaned out desperately. 

He growled and held her on him even more deeply. He was grinding himself up into her before stroking himself through her--deep into her again--roughly. 

Tears were coming to her eyes. "Michael! Oh, please God, yes!" 

He obeyed her incoherent plea by pulling her back from him by her hips and then back onto his huge hardened length again with a growl, as he stroked it into her with a rough, desperate force. His teeth closed over her perfectly. 

"Oooohhhhh--aaaaahhh," she moaned out loudly. Her hips bucked up against him, her walls tightening insanely. Her nails were painful on his head. 

He let go of her breast and looked up at her spasming body with a look so feral it almost scared her when she saw it. "That's not enough," he growled. 

He continued the deep, brutal rhythm he had started on her, riding her with an insane force. His shaft was so sensitized he felt every tiny millimeter of her incredible, silken warmth wrapped around him--felt it in his bones and his blood, felt it as an instinct for a part of himself. 

Her first orgasm hadn't ended--hadn't even started to. Her eyes were wide, and she was whimpering beneath him, her whole body still convulsing in pleasure. 

She felt like she was about to spontaneously combust from sheer ecstasy and desire. Michael's strong shaft was stroking her trembling walls insanely--was absolutely commanding her tight depths, his head a brutal warmth in her deepest core. 

Her nails were breaking the skin on his shoulders. "That's right, my lioness." He was incredibly deep in her--never moving very far out, stroking furiously. "Beg for your lion." 

"Michael," her trembling voice cried. "Uhhhhhh, Michael!" 

"Good," he murmured. He took her legs and demanded that they unwrap from around him. Her eyes were wide, her body trembling with pleasure and on the verge of another, absolutely cataclysmic release--one which would simply add to the one she was still experiencing. 

He ran her thighs up his chest--placing her knees on his shoulders, her feet down his back, and she let out a groaning scream at this new sensation. He leaned further over her to grab her shoulders; her hands had moved closer together on his back. He began pulling himself into her in rough, deep thrusts--showing her no mercy at all. 

Tears were running down her face. "Ahhh--ahhh--ahhh," she was crying out. Her depths were clasped so tightly around him that her need for him was almost painful. "Harder," she barely managed to whisper. 

He growled and pulled himself into her in brutal little jabs--to her choked screams. She felt so good around him--so erotically, cataclysmically, perfect that his whole body shook with sensitivity in his need for her. 

His strokes didn't calm down in the slightest, as he took hold of her head. "That's right, `Kita." His voice was incredibly rough. "That's right." He gave her a brutally rough stroke that surpassed all the rest. "Come for me," he demanded. He ground himself up ruthlessly into her. "Right now." He matched the previous stroke once more. 

She was letting out little gasping, choking screams. Her whole body felt like it was undulating around him. Then, every reasonable or explainable sensation ceased--were driven entirely into the realm of the near-mythical--when he lowered his mouth to hers and gave her a deep, commanding soul-kiss. 

Floating . . . she was floating--was nowhere and everywhere at once. The pleasure was simply too much to absorb; it was like being in heaven. 

He broke the kiss to look back at her. "`Kita," he whispered in a broken voice. She opened her eyes, still swimming in sensation; tears flowed down her cheeks. Both his hands took hold of her face, and he held her eyes for one more second to command--to request that she watch. Then he stroked into her softness--unspeakably deeply--one last time. 

He gave a loud, screaming cry, as he came, his seemingly endless warmth barreling deep into her core, filling her completely. His eyes closed; his face transformed into a mask of indescribable desire and ecstasy. His whole body shook, as he held himself in an arch above her, his hips thrusting him convulsively into her several more times, utterly mindless, as his orgasm swept completely through him. 

Everything in him felt alive. Her love and need made him real; his soul seemed to free itself from the boundaries he always kept it in, and he allowed it to soar. His shaft throbbed and tossed wildly within her, giving him a warmth and completion which made his whole body tremble with ecstasy. He had never before felt quite so perfect. 

She had never seen anything so beautiful before. The man who held her soul--who had just given her a release she was still shuddering violently from, was still being transformed in--was arching in the overwhelming release *she* had given *him*. He never--she knew--did this with anyone else; never even felt anything then. But she . . . she alone could make this beautiful man tremble with ecstatic completion. . . . It was a sight so perfect it seemed to complete her soul. "Michael," she moaned. 

He looked back down at her, and their eyes met. Their souls seemed to flow into and through each other--helping them transcend their incarnate selves. 

He came back down to her, and they possessed each other's mouths--sharing their aching, singing pleasure through the kiss. . . . It was too much; they had flowed into one, single, whole being--a being made entirely of spirit. 

Finally, they knew their destiny, understood the plan God had made for them. They were created for each other alone--in this and every other lifetime. No other attempt at union could ever work, could ever be real. . . . They were with one another for eternity. 

They continued to kiss, as their shuddering release finally began to calm down. But, even later, when they had settled themselves to fall asleep--a bit more comfortably, yet still utterly entwined--they still felt it; they each had at least of piece of each other's souls in them now. . . . Whatever their physical realities, they would never be separated again. 

************ 

It was yet another enchanting morning for them--yet another one when they were waking up in each other's arms. Although it was a simple pleasure--one which many lovers took for granted, neither of them could ever imagine anything more beautiful than this. 

They were making a study, lately, of possession--were examining all of the ways in which they belonged in one another's arms. They had yet to let an entire day pass without making love at least once. Sometimes, they had been more gentle with each other; other times they had been unspeakably demanding--had been utterly ruthless in their giving and receiving of pleasure, but all of it had been holy to them--all of it cherished. 

There had yet to be a day when they hadn't worked their way even further into one another's souls. Nikita smiled and nuzzled closer to Michael, as she began to work her way up through the fringes of consciousness. She noticed that everything around her seemed to be enveloped in light; she had the dreamlike impression that she and Michael were bathed in it--that they were surrounded by a beauty which shone forth from them . . . that they were attached by tendrils of sparkling energy which bound their souls. 

She couldn't remember ever being happier than at this moment. There had been almost a week of accepted, unspoken communication between them; even more, there had been almost a week of *spoken* communication--of the sharing and then the, at least partial, elimination of some of the pain which had surrounded them for so long. 

It was astonishing, she knew, that they had been able to achieve this. If there was one thing which Section discouraged more than anything else, it was trust. You were taught early--and repeatedly--that it was foolish to view anyone around you as a friend; if you seemed to not be understanding this point, in fact, then someone like Michael would frequently be sent in to give the final, deceptive blow to your innocence . . . would arrive to deliver the coup de grace to your soul. 

She began to come further into consciousness. Of course, this was a blow which few operatives truly needed. Most were only too willing to abandon their compassion within the first few months--if not before. . . . It was only the recalcitrant, soulful ones who were deemed worthy of such treatment. 

She opened her eyes finally to see the sun shining down on the skin of Michael's chest--angling in from a window nearby. She, of course, had been one of those who had been singled out for such treatment. She, too, had been one of Michael's "assignments." 

She knew, though, that she had always been much more than that. She had recognized that fact in many ways--both consciously and subconsciously--ever since her recruitment. 

She had attributed her belief in her own uniqueness to him, however--many times, to her own self-deception, to her own desire to believe that Michael would care--the same desire his manipulations played off. . . . But she had always known, as well--deep in her soul, that it wasn't simply an illusion. 

She had felt it as far back, really, as her first meeting with him, although it had *certainly* not been a conscious impression, at the time. On reflection, however, she that knew she had felt, somewhere deep beneath her immediate fear and shock, the bond to him that would become so strong later on--although all of her natural common sense and survival instincts had blocked out the observation to begin with; no woman in her right mind, after all, was going to be thinking about "spiritual bonds" when she woke up to find that she had been abducted. Only a woman with some *serious* issues would ignore the obvious peril of her situation to begin assessing her captor's physical appeal. 

She raised her head to look at him now, taking in his beauty. He had a slight frown on his face, as though he were dreaming about something which upset him. She placed light kisses on his eyes and one cheek, and the bad dreams seemed to evaporate; he sighed, now smiling a little, and held her closer. 

She placed her head back on his chest again, rubbing her cheek against it. She loved him so much. She knew it was a fact which didn't make any true logical sense--was one which contradicted all of the physical facts of their lives. Had it been anyone else who had trained her, in fact, she certainly wouldn't have reacted the same; however attractive, anyone else would be either an object of fear or--at best--simply a colleague. 

In truth, though, she knew that she wouldn't have lived through her training period--and her first few missions--without him. . . . With anyone else--she would simply have allowed the trigger to be pulled on him, would have let her trainer be killed seconds before her own death . . . would have seen it as a mercy. 

This wasn't a positive truth between them, of course. In many ways, Michael had turned her into a killer--had helped rob her soul of something very precious. 

It was a fact which she had never entirely forgiven him for, really, she continued pondering--was one for which she suspected he had yet to forgive himself, as well. She knew that was for the best, though; there was no reason at all that they should. It would, indeed, be dangerous if they did--both psychologically and psychically. They both needed to remember that the fact that they loved each other wasn't an excuse for anything they might do to stay together. . . . Forgetting that, indeed, could have *very* tragic consequences. 

She shuddered a little, unconsciously, and Michael let out a soft moan, as he woke. He opened his eyes and looked down at her, instantly aware of her muted anguish. "What is it?" 

She forced a smile onto her face--not wanting to ruin their time together with such dour thoughts. "Nothing." 

He raised his hand to stroke along her soft cheek, his eyes kind but serious. The slight distress he felt coming from her had returned him fully to his senses. "What is it, Ni-ki-ta?" 

She closed her eyes for second and turned her head to place a soft kiss on the hand on her cheek. She was still silent, though--not focusing on him, almost afraid to deal with such painful issues. 

He tilted his head to her--his hand lifting hers to his lips--and kissed her temple softly several times. She closed her eyes and let out a sigh which masked a slight groan. The love which flooded her from him was overwhelming; she felt his kiss on her soul. "What is it?" he repeated softly. He lay his head back, still focusing on her. 

She sighed and looked up at him finally. She took a deep breath, trying to find the words. "I was just thinking about the Van Vactor mission," she intimated quietly. 

His eyes widened slightly. He understood now exactly what she had really been thinking about. "Go on," he said softly. 

She sighed. "Michael . . ." She paused, swallowing. Her hand came up to stroke along his jaw. "I love you so much," she whispered, her eyes examining the area her hand was caressing, her gaze a little unfocused. 

He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it, waiting for her to go on. 

She sighed again, resting her hand on his chest once more--his own covering it. She looked back at him, eyes clear. "I'll never be sorry that we met." She shook her head. "I feel like we were meant to--like it was somehow what we were . . . supposed to do." She knew her words reflected the sort of spiritual truths which no one in Section admitted to recognizing--and very few would have. Her look got very sad; she shook her head. "But I can't ever claim that I wanted us to meet like we did." 

He closed his eyes, trying to hold back the tears he felt stinging them suddenly. He pressed her head toward him and kissed her temple several more times. 

He looked back at her finally, swallowing. He was fighting slightly to have the strength to speak; his voice was a whisper, as he stroked her jaw. "I know my life would have been meaningless without you, `Kita." He shook his head. "I know you're my only reason for having been born." He sighed and leaned up to kiss her forehead before returning his gaze to her, finally finishing his confession. "But--to save you the pain of becoming what I made you--I would gladly give up everything we've ever shared." 

She saw the tears glittering in the corners of his eyes, and she closed her own, trying to keep from crying, as well. She tilted her head up to kiss the underside of his throat, before she settled herself back on top of him--nuzzling her forehead against the area she had just kissed. She finally refocused, staring slightly vacantly at his chest. "I don't know what I want, Michael." 

He closed his eyes in pain for another second and kissed the top of her head. He gently repositioned her--pulling her back to his shoulder, so he could focus on her eyes. His thumb stroked over her chin; his look was very serious. "Don't give up your soul for me, Nikita . . . no matter what I do to try to convince you." He shook his head. "Please . . . don't ever give that up." 

She swallowed, wishing things were different between them. "You won't stop asking me to, though, will you?" 

He shook his head, as he closed his eyes for a second to try to hold off his tears. He refocused on her once more. "No." His eyes were incredibly sad. 

She swallowed back her own tears, shaking her head a little. "How do I prevent it, Michael?" She truly was at a loss; she knew Section was eating away at her conscience a little every day. With every assignment, every new mission, she became less and less the person she needed to be. 

He swallowed heavily. "I don't know." 

They were caught in each other's pained gaze for several more seconds before the reason for their agony reminded them more clearly of its existence. They both closed their eyes at the ringing of the cell phone, a few tears escaping them. He looked back at her with eyes which pleaded for forgiveness--for a reprieve for them both, before he rolled her off of him. He disunited their bodies with almost a physical pain at the loss of her--his eyes closed--and then got up silently to answer their masters. 

Nikita lay her head on her arm, as she listened to his side of the call. "Yes. . . . Yes." She closed her eyes, tears running along her cheeks. . . . It wasn't fair. . . . It wasn't fair. . . . It wasn't fair--her mind repeated the thought continuously, as she fought the urge to openly weep. 

She heard him close his phone, and she took a deep breath--forcing herself to try to return to mission mode. She sat up slowly, opening her eyes, and took another deep breath to steady herself before trying to rise. 

He was beside her before she realized that he was approaching; she had been too wrapped up in her own pain to notice. He caught her arms, as she was standing up and shook his head at her, before returning them both to their knees. They kneeled on the bed, facing one another, each holding on to the other's upper arms. "They want me in . . . *tomorrow*." 

Her eyes widened, the tears still on her cheeks. "They're giving us one more day?" 

He nodded and pulled her toward him, laying her head on his chest--holding her very close, as he rocked her. He kissed her hair. "Yes." 

"Do they know I'm here?" she wondered. 

"Probably," he replied softly, "but they didn't mention you specifically. . . . They just said I'd need to put together my team then," he answered her, before she asked. 

She sighed. "They know." 

He nodded sadly. "Yes." 

She shook her head against him; she was choking back her tears, trying to cry silently. She was grateful for their short reprieve, but she wished to God that they never had to return. 

He held her even closer, rocking them both softly, in a comforting rhythm. He kissed her head again. "I know. . . . I know," he whispered, his voice strong but a little stilted from pain. 

She felt a tear hit the top of her head, and she held him closer. Her voice was tear-filled, as she asked cosmic questions--ones which couldn't be answered on earth. "Why, Michael?" She choked back a sob. "Why did we have to meet like this?" He held her closer, as he kissed the top of her head once more, and she felt his chest trembling slightly, as he cried silently. "I love you so much. . . . Why couldn't we just be together?" 

He began clinging to her, rocking them both a little more quickly. He was choking back his sobs, trying to keep from increasing her pain any further with his own. "I don't know, Nikita." His hand ran into her hair, as he held her to his heart. "I wish to God I did." 

His voice was a soft whisper, was holding in such pain; she needed--desperately--to rid him of it. She could accept--reluctantly--her own torment, but she couldn't stand feeling his sorrow. 

She kissed along his chest and then up his throat, to his groan of need and emotional pain. She met his eyes once more; they shone brightly from his tears--from his intense despair. "Michael," she whispered. 

They sat there for several seconds, ensnared completely in one another's gaze. They were simply overwhelmed by the connection they felt between them--by the shared pain, the shared love . . . by the shared desire to be together, to be able to live a life as one, complete soul. 

They both felt like they were wandering through each other's spirits. They understood everything in one another's hearts and minds--knew that their pain was based solely on their denied need to be able to share themselves this way forever. 

They wanted so little, really, but--to Section's eyes--it was far too much. They weren't human beings to their masters, after all; they were objects--were flesh-covered pawns to be sacrificed whenever convenient. Their desires, their needs . . . their loves were entirely inconsequential, were utterly meaningless. 

There was no way to escape the truth of it. . . . They were slaves, and--as such--they had no rights: they couldn't choose their own paths; they couldn't see themselves as human; . . . they certainly couldn't love who or how they chose to. They were just bodies to be used in whatever ways their masters saw fit; they could be worked, whored, or killed, and none of them had any legal right to complain. 

Part of their pain morphed into anger now. Like every person ever held in bondage--either literal or symbolic, they knew they deserved the right to make their own choices--to live their own lives. They deserved the right to seek their pleasure in whatever harmless ways they wished--deserved the right to find their own way, their own paths through life without interference. . . . They deserved the right to live with and for their soul's chosen mate, deserved the right to bear children who would not be stolen to further their masters' own ends. 

Their hands stroked over each other's shoulders and along their backs, their gazes still locked to one another's. They each felt these not-so-simple truths singing through them. They were being allowed to mate temporarily by Section with the purpose of making them more docile servants; they were being allowed to be lovers briefly, in the mistaken belief that they weren't capable of any emotions higher than lust. . . . And, when it was over, they would be separated again and told to sleep with whomever their masters chose--with whomever they thought they could profit from, and no complaints would be expected or tolerated. 

The fact that they were being used in such a way enraged them now. They were human--had souls capable of deeper and more noble feelings than their masters' were, souls which they hadn't purposely destroyed with the end of controlling others--of gaining material power. . . . No, Section would never understand them--simply wasn't capable of it. The two of them were still alive, after all; the ones who controlled them had committed spiritual suicide long, long ago. 

Their hands caressed one another's necks, as their breathing quickened. They had stopped crying, too caught up in the eyes of their beloved to continue. They both knew the truth of their lives--Section One owned their bodies, but their souls were still their own; Nikita--who had never let go of hers--had relentlessly wrestled and fought for Michael's, had finally been able to wrest it from the torturously cruel grasp of the soulless creatures he had given it to many years ago. Now--by his own, individual choice--it belonged to her . . . as her own--at least partly--belonged to him. 

"Michael," she mouthed, her thumbs stroking along his hairline. Her eyes willingly gave him possession of herself. His own returned the favor. 

"`Kita," he breathed. They pulled each other into a deep and possessive kiss--one which seemed to seal their souls to one another. They might belong to Section in body, but no one but themselves could ever separate their souls. 

************ 

The kiss was deep and all-encompassing. They were both groaning through it, as they searched each other's sweet mouths with a raging need. They wanted there to be no part of their lover's softness they didn't know--no millimeter of velvet joy which eluded them. 

They held one another in the kiss desperately. They only had one day left. By tomorrow, they would once more be Section's property. . . . For now, however, they were determined that *nothing* would come between them. 

Their groans grew louder, as they bruised each other's lips with the force of the powerful, searching kiss. It seemed unfair, at the moment, that they couldn't simply merge themselves into one person, that they couldn't become one pure whole. 

Their hands were clinging to each other's hair, as they pressed their lips together fiercely, occasionally leaning back just enough to bite lightly at those soft petals in need. They were both breathing heavily, were both in intense need for one another. 

It was a need, however, which was far from being entirely physical. In fact, the sexual side of it was only important because it was their only real way of expressing--trapped as they were in physical forms--their fierce need to be one, to share every single part of themselves, as they allowed themselves to merge all of the intimate pieces of their needy souls. 

Their hands were hurting each other's scalps, their lips bruising one another's, as they continued to demand that they be made whole once more. They were both intensely aroused--were in such need for each other that it made them feel as though they had lost every final shred of sanity. Michael was once more beating against her--his arousal aching with its fierce need to connect with her. She was moaning, growling--was feeling an aching emptiness which could only be filled by a complete connection to her intensely beloved. 

Neither one was going to break away. They needed each other more deeply than there were physical words to express. Section had given them one more day to be together, before returning them--unwillingly--to their brutal lives of pain and humiliation. . . . They weren't going to let a single second of this opportunity pass unfulfilled. 

Michael pulled back from the kiss finally, to look at her for another heartbeat. His eyes were fierce and wild; his lips were as kiss-swollen as hers. "You're mine, Nikita." He panted slightly, his need for her intense. "And I'm going to make damn sure you never regret that." 

Her eyes were incredibly feral. "You're right, Michael; I am yours." Her hands went to his shoulders and pushed him back heavily onto the mattress, landing herself heavily on top of him. "Now shut up and lie still." She kissed him fiercely once more and then moved to graze her teeth down his earlobe before erotically attacking a very tender spot on his neck. 

He was a little surprised--but not at all upset--by her attack. He growled in submissive response. He was more than willing to let her take temporary control; he knew, after all, that he would return it a hundredfold in his own time. 

She lay between his parted knees, the way he had fallen after her attack. He held her head to him, wanting desperately to bear the marks of her passion. "Harder," he demanded--and then gave a groaning growl in response when her teeth bit him brutally, filling him with intense warmth and need. His arousal was practically a living thing, as it throbbed against her--begging for her fierce devotion. 

She growled against his neck, running her teeth up along the spot she had possessed as she left it--moving on to torment another. Her hand, meanwhile, stroked down him--underneath her slightly raised body--to enclose his thickened arousal. He groaned loudly. 

She began an intense rhythm on him, her hand commanding his length in just the way he needed. Her teeth moved again to close over the crook of his neck, marring his tender flesh with her desire. "Ah-ahhh!" he groaned out, his hands roaming over her back. "Yes, God--more." 

She began to rub her thumb in circles around his tip, as her hips thrust against him, arousing him even further. Her teeth continued to mark him as her own. 

Oh God, she felt good. He was utterly mindless--had given himself up entirely to her will. All he wanted was to feel her devotion to him--to see just how rough she could be with his willing body. "`Ki-ta," he moaned in submission. 

She ran her teeth up off his neck finally and looked at him. Her hands came up to run her thumbnails over his small, tender buds. Her hips were thrusting against the length of his shaft--were taunting him with her wet need. 

He looked up at her, eyes devoted and intensely aroused. She smiled ferally at him. "Do you like how I touch you?" she asked, eyes locked commandingly to his. 

He groaned. "Like" was *far* too weak a word. "*Yes*," he breathed heavily. His shaft bobbed against her; his hands took hold of her soft curves and pulled her against him in a brutal rhythm. "Please," he begged, "be rough with me." 

Her smile became more cunning. "Do you think you have a choice?" 

He groaned in need. "No." He panted. "No. ` don't want one." He wanted to be entirely under her control--wanted desperately for her to show him just how deep her need for him ran; he had given up his will to her completely, . . . and he was loving every second of it. 

"Good," she stated, matter of factly. She ran her teeth in small, painless bites along the line of his jaw--biting slightly more roughly when she approached his neck. "You're my mate, Michael," she purred. She bit the side of his neck and looked back up at him. "I'll show you what it means to be under my command." 

He groaned desperately, his eyes devoting his entire soul to her--begging to be solely the instrument of her will. Her nails brushed across his nipples more roughly, and he groaned loudly again in response, his eyes closing temporarily. "Yes, `Kita." He looked back at her, eyes begging. "*Please*." His hands held her shoulders. 

Her smile grew broader, and she let out a small, pleased moan. She was responding to him on an utterly instinctive level; he was her mate, and--as such, they should both do nothing but give and receive the kind of pleasure God had created all of their sensual abilities to allow. 

She lowered her head to him and began to place very light bites down his chest till she nipped more roughly at his nipple. "Ahhhh!" he moaned out, holding her to him. "Please, yes." 

Her mouth closed over him once and then ran up to release him. He was breathing wildly, whimpering slightly. Keeping her eyes on his face to watch his pleasure, she began licking over the small, hard bud repeatedly--like a lioness drinking at a river. 

His eyes opened to watch her, and his breathing grew even more imperiled. Her leonine qualities seemed to be intensified unbearably, her eyes glittering at him like something out of the jungle. Every stroke of her tongue sent shocks of desire through him. Part of him wanted to roll her over right now and enter her deeply--wanted to remind her that he was her only mate. But there was no way he was missing this. He was loving every single second of her erotic domination. 

Her tongue ran one final lick over him before she stroked her teeth strongly over him again. She felt his arousal jump in response. She bit him again, and he throbbed against her all the more. She lifted her head for a second. "You like that?" 

He groaned loudly in response. "`Kita, yes." He was becoming almost monosyllabic. He was so aroused it seemed to sing through him. He wanted her to wreak her own, wonderful form of sensual havoc on him--to leave nothing of him behind, in her wake, but his trembling, completely submissive form. 

His eyes were wide and aroused, his breathing ragged. She had never seen him so willing and in need--not even in their previous nights together. She loved--far more than she had the words to express--how completely open he was to her. . . . If this was to be one of their last times together, she was going to make it a memorable one--was going to enjoy touching and commanding his gorgeous body in all the ways she always dreamed of. . . . After today, he would never be able to question her need for him again. 

************ She lowered her mouth to his other nipple and began suckling him--still keeping up a controlling eye contact with him. He held her to him, small whimpers escaping his throat. The look of complete possession and joy that she was aiming at him was overwhelming and undeniable. She was obviously thoroughly enjoying making a meal out of him; it was almost too erotic to stand. 

His hips thrust at her rhythmically, his arousal throbbing painfully against her. He wanted, desperately, for her desire to take her lower, . . . but there was no way he would ask. 

She ran her teeth up to let him go and sat up, her hips returning his rhythm--taunting him with the warm depths he so longed for. Her smile was possessive. "What do you want me to do, Michael?" Her hand began to run lower on him, but stopped before reaching his need. 

He let out a short "Ah!" and his breathing grew even more pant-like. "Please," he asked. 

She just smiled at him, while her fingers toyed with his navel. "Please what, my love?" 

His pulse pounded more strongly through his need at her words. He groaned. "Please touch me," he begged. 

She smiled more broadly and shifted her hips off of him. His legs were still spread, leaving him entirely open to her touch. She closed her hand lightly around him, stroking along his length. "Like that?" she asked, not so innocently. 

His hips thrust at her, as his need grew stronger. "Ohhh," he groaned out in perilously-escalating desire. "Harder . . . please." 

She was grinning slightly at him. Her hand closed more strongly around him--taking hold of the base and then running long, harder strokes up his length. "That?" 

He groaned out, more loudly. She was purposely giving him just enough to keep him a step away from his needs. "Please, harder." His eyes begged her. 

Her fist closed more firmly around him, stroking more strongly. She never touched his aching tip. "Is that what you want?" she asked, playing innocent. 

She was keeping just one step behind his needs, and he knew she knew it. She wanted him to beg, and he had no choice about it; she was leading him through the pathways of his own desires--was showing him just how far he would go in his need. . . . It was a gift he was adoring every second of. 

"More . . . faster," he moaned, giving up more of his control to her. 

She followed his instructions, beginning to catch up to his desires. "That better?" she smiled. 

"Ohhhh," he groaned. He closed his eyes, and she stopped stroking him altogether. He let out a short scream--opening them once again. 

She looked at him seriously. "I wouldn't advise looking away, Michael." 

He was panting now, his arousal aching in need. "No, no," he promised. "Please." 

Her fingers went back to stroking him lightly, as her tongue came out to run across her upper lip. He groaned. "What do you want?" she tormented. 

He let out a short groan, unable to form the words she wanted--simply unable to ask. 

She ceased all movement on him, holding his eyes seriously. Her tongue played over her teeth, her mouth slightly open. "Well?" she demanded. 

He groaned out from his soul. "Yes! Please!" His hands went to frame her face, and he began to lower her slightly--gently, his thumbs rubbing over her cheeks. "Please, my beautiful Nikita." 

He panted, as she refused to move until he said the words she wanted. He was groaning further, his hips thrusting toward her. She still simply looked at him. He groaned once more, finally giving in to her demands. "Yes, `Kita," he moaned, lowering her again. "Taste me." 

She ran her tongue out to taste the head of his shaft--running light lines over it with her tongue. He let out a choking groan at the sight, but still she knowingly didn't give him what he wanted. 

She lifted her head back up and met his eyes. "Is that all?" 

He groaned deeply again. She obviously didn't care how crude he got; she was simply demanding that he give in enough to tell her, to ask for what he wanted. He had tears in his eyes, his breath coming in short bursts. His arousal was throbbing desperately. 

He could see no way around her demands. He gave in, therefore, and told her what she wanted to hear--what he had never felt worthy of saying to her; his thumbs stroked over her cheeks. "I need you, Nikita." He stopped to pant. "I won't even let myself dream of your mouth on me; it's too intimate--too submissive for you." 

She ran her tongue over his tip once more and then lifted her head again. "You don't always have a problem with that," she pointed out. 

He groaned, unable to argue; he changed the topic slightly to make his point. "Do you like tasting me?" 

She smiled at him, a little sympathetically. Part of her, after all, *loved* that--as much as he obviously enjoyed the pleasure she could give him--he didn't want to force her into any sort of submission which might not involve her pleasure. She knew that what was bothering him here, really, was that he feared that she was simply pleasing him, without concern for herself. 

She also knew, however, how totally unfounded his fears were. Her smile grew more seductive, and she dropped her head to take the tip of his shaft in her mouth for a second, suckling him, her eyes still meeting his. 

He let out a gasping groan, and bucked slightly against her--growing larger. "Mmmm," she moaned, releasing him again. "You taste wonderful, my sweet Michael." One finger ran up the front of his length, so that he could watch her touch. "I love the feel of you in my mouth, love the power of you in my hand." He was groaning from her words. 

She smiled again, her tongue running over her lips, as she delivered her verbal coup de grace. "I love it when you lose control, when you release all of your warmth, and I get to feel it slide down my throat. Mmm," she licked her lips, arousing him mercilessly. "It's like a sweet gift." He let out a little gasping groan, and she moaned seductively. "You're a meal to be savored, my love." 

His mouth was open, his eyes tearing fiercely. He was panting in short little aching breaths. That she wanted him this badly was practically all it took to fulfill him; her erotic skills on top of it might kill him, . . . but he was beginning to think it would be a very good way to go. "Yes," he moaned, his hands lowering her again. "Please, yes." 

She still paused, awaiting his further words. He groaned and gave them to her. "I want your mouth on me in the tight, warm rhythm you create. I want your hands on me, stroking me--caressing me." He panted, as she licked his tip once more. He shook his head slightly. "The gift here is yours, but I want to receive." 

He held her head onto his tip now and groaned as she suckled him, his head back, eyes just barely keeping her gaze. "Ohhh, ohhh God," he moaned. "Yes, `Kita, please." He leaned his head forward again. "Please take everything I have." 

She suckled him more roughly, to his groan. "Yes," he panted. "Please, my lioness . . . feast on me. . . . Leave nothing behind." 

She licked him once to let him go. "Very good, Michael," she smiled. Then she lowered her head to him in earnest. 

His hips bucked against her, as she began to stroke her tight mouth along his length, one hand following strongly in its wake. The other roughly caressed his tightened sac. Her eyes watched him. 

"Uhhhh," he moaned. This was so unspeakably erotic. Her rhythm grew faster, and he moaned again. "Yes, . . . God, yes. . . . More." He panted. "Harder." 

She followed his pleas and tightened her mouth around him, her rhythm more intense. Her tongue stroked up and down along the vein on the back of his shaft, her thumb following below it. 

His hips bucked against her. "Yes, `Kita. . . . Ohhhh," he moaned, moving her more quickly along him. "Please, yes." 

Her teeth closed on him briefly and he screamed out in desire. "Oh God!" he moaned. "I love it when you're rough with me." He panted for a second before continuing. "Please, please, be rougher--be brutal." He groaned. "Devour me." 

A moan of pleasure arose from her and she followed his desires, growing much rougher with him. His hips were bucking against her in her rhythm; his hands moved her along him. "Oh God, yes," he moaned. "Yes, my `Kita. I want you to taste me." He groaned, his head back, eyes still on her incredibly erotic ministrations. "Please," he panted, giving himself up to her sensual demands--giving up yet more of his control. "I want to come into you," he begged her. "Please." 

She growled and got much faster on him. His whole length was so sensitized that every tiny particle of it seemed to be shivering with need. Her hands were being very rough with him. 

"Oh, yes, yes!" he cried out, watching the intensely erotic ministrations of the woman he loved. "Oh God, yes, I need you." His hands ran back into her hair, continuing to encourage her movement--never roughly, just in need. Her mouth grew tighter around him. "Oh . . . oh, God, you feel good!" He stroked her more rapidly up and down his shaft--her willing rhythm brutal. Tears ran from the corners of his eyes. 

She moaned. She loved his complete abandon--his total need. She loved that she could make him beg like this--loved that she could break down all of his old, protective walls and make him feel nothing but his desire for her. 

She wanted his release--maybe even more than he did. She wanted to swallow his warmth--to savor it. She wanted him to lose his mind--to give it up to her completely. 

She closed her hand around his base tightly and bit him lightly just under the head. She released him briefly, with a lick to the tip. 

"Come for me, Michael." Her hand tightened around him--the other caressing his sac even more roughly. His eyes showed his desperate need; his lips were trembling. He was hovering so close to the edge. "Let me swallow the treasure you hold." Her mouth took him in quickly again, and she ran one incredibly strong, tight suck up his length--her pressure on him brutal; she brushed his tip ever so slightly with her teeth. 

Michael groaned out deeply, as her mouth descended on him once more. "`Kiiiii-ta!" he moaned. He gave one last, rotating stroke into her mouth and then bucked wildly against her, as he released his warmth into her. "Mmm," she moaned. 

He let out groaning screams, as his hips thrust against her uncontrollably. He tried to pull her back enough to keep from hurting her, but he was utterly overpowered by the force of his release. 

Dear God, he had rarely ever felt this good before--and all of the other times he had had been with her, had been when he was inside her--in one way or another. His heart felt fulfilled--his soul complete; his beautiful, enticing lover--the woman who was the sole purpose of his life--was drinking deeply from him, her eyes glowing with desire. The ache she gave him in his release was so erotic he wasn't sure he could possibly survive the throbbing warmth of it. 

His shaft was dancing within her soft mouth, as she suckled him--calming him. . . . My God, he thought. No other woman would ever come close to her; she was the living embodiment of aching fulfillment. 

"Mmm," she moaned again. She loved that she could do this to him--loved how vulnerable he became when he gave himself up to her. She savored the warmth of his release--letting it warm the length of her throat--and watched his body's desperate spasms, adoring the control over his desires he had allowed her once again. 

Once his desperate thrusts had ceased and he was entirely spent--was lying prone and gasping on the bed, eyes closed, she released him from her mouth, giving the tip one final lick. He looked up at her, still simply too overwhelmed to move. She smiled at him and licked her lips. "Mmm," she moaned at him, "thank you, Michael." 

His eyes switched from their desperate adoration of her to begin to glow once more in need. "You're trying to kill me?" he asked softly. 

She laughed and stroked her hand lightly over his shaft, which began to beat once again in need--to his strangled cry. "I rather like you alive," she murmured seductively. Her hand stroked him a little harder. 

He closed his eyes, moaning. "Yessss." He ran his own hand down to cover hers, helping her stroke him in the rhythm he wanted--not that she had any problem with that on her own. "Uhhhh," he moaned, as his blood took back up what had been its normal place of residence these last few days. 

He opened his eyes to look at her. "God, you're amazing." 

She smiled at him and leaned down to lick a soft line over the stiffening tip, to his deep groan. She sat back up and licked her lips again. "Mmm, you're not so bad yourself," she teased. 

He stroked her hand more firmly over himself, his breathing growing more erratic. "Do you like the way I feel?" His eyes were seductive and commanding. 

"Mmmm," she moaned and leaned down to lick over him again; his arousal jumped into further life at the touch. "I like the way you taste even more." 

His shaft responded to the compliment, springing back into life, and he leaned his head back and moaned, stroking her hand more strongly along himself. He looked back up at her. "You'll pay for that," he smiled. 

Her eyes glittered at him. "I'm looking forward to it." 

He growled and sat up, pushing her hand off of him. He leaned over toward her lips, breathing his words over them, as he examined their softness. "You want me rough?" He looked back up at her eyes, to see that her breathing had escalated dangerously. 

She licked at his lips lightly and smiled. "Yes." 

He smiled ferally in response. "Good." 

************* 

He began to stalk her, leaning over--without touching--her, bending her back to the bed under him, as she followed his plan. Her eyes were wide with desire. When he finally held himself on his arms above her, his arousal beating strongly for her once again, he looked down at her--his eyes running over her lips. "You're mine, Nikita--no one else's . . . not your own, not Section's-- . . . mine." He looked back to her eyes, his look heated and powerful. "Any objections?" 

She was panting slightly. "No." 

He smiled. "Very good." He lowered just his lips to play over hers lightly, his strong arousal throbbing against her. "What do you want from me?" he asked quietly. 

She moaned; he was trying to kill her with anticipation--was getting back at her for her earlier possession of him, and--as he knew she would--she was loving every minute of it. "Everything," she moaned in response. 

His eyes flared at her. "Good answer." 

He ran his tongue out to tease around her lips but pulled back whenever she tried to capture him. She moaned in frustration. "Where do you want me to start?" he whispered, focused on her lips again. 

"Uhhh," she moaned, incredibly aroused by his soft torment. "Kiss me, Michael . . . please." 

"Very well." He lowered just his lips to hers and captured her mouth deeply and possessively, commanding the soft depths there. She moaned against him and tried to pull him down on her. He pulled back from the kiss. "What do you want?" 

She moaned. "You, Michael--you." She panted. "Please," she tried to pull his shoulders toward herself. "I want to feel your body on mine," she panted again. "I want to feel your skin against me." 

He smiled slightly, in total possession of himself. "Very well," he stated again. He lowered himself on top of her and crushed her to the bed, his mouth commanding hers once more--his arousal pressing against her. 

She moaned through the kiss, overwhelmed--once again--by the simple sensation of skin against skin. She held him to her, her fingers in his hair. Her legs moved around until she was straddling him, spreading themselves wide. 

He released his deep kiss by stroking his teeth over her lower lip. His hands went to her soft thighs--stroking along them. His arousal teased her nether bud. "Is that an invitation?" he asked quietly. 

She moaned again. She was more than ready for him. "Yes, Michael, yes." 

He smiled at her and ran a finger over her soft lips. He shook his head. "No. I don't think so. Not yet." 

"You don't want me?" she asked, trying to goad him into action. 

He smiled calmly back at her. "Nice try," he smiled. He stopped stroking her lips and gave her a brief, deep kiss, releasing her with the hint of his teeth along her lower lip again. "What do you want me to do?" 

She knew he wasn't going to consent to entering her just yet--was loving her erotic torment too much to give it up. She tried another angle, therefore. "Touch me, Michael--please." 

"Where?" he asked simply. 

She moaned desperately, her eyes beginning to tear from sheer frustration. His hips were rocking his arousal so temptingly against her, but he wouldn't give her the release she wanted--was enjoying her anticipation too much. "Everywhere," she moaned. 

He took her arms from around him and then took hold of her hands. "Show me," he stated calmly. 

She groaned and held his hands to guide him. First, she ran them along her neck and they willingly, seductively stroked it. She leaned her head back and moaned, and he leaned in to place a wet kiss on the underside of her throat--to her gasp of pleasure. 

He looked back up at her. "You like that?" 

She moaned. "Yes, Michael, please . . . more." 

He returned his mouth to her neck and ran soft, wet kisses to all of her most delicate spots. She moaned. "More." 

He gave a soft, willing spot a hint of his teeth. "Like that?" he murmured against her neck. 

"Ohhh," she moaned. "Oh, please, Michael . . . more." 

He began running his teeth up over her repeatedly to her soft groans. She still wanted more, though. She let go of his hands to try to hold him to her. 

"You don't want me to touch you?" he asked at her neck, his hands ceasing their caresses. 

She moaned. "No--more," she begged him, as she took hold of his hands once more and moved them over herself. He found another tender spot on her neck. "Harder," she moaned, angling her neck toward his mouth. She moved his hands further down herself, as he bit her perfectly. "Ohhhhh," she moaned. "Oh God, more." 

He began to suckle roughly at a very sensitive spot, as she moved his hands down to her breasts. He covered them, massaging them, as she held them to her. She moaned and tried to maneuver his fingers to stroke her nipples, but he simply continued in his previous efforts. 

She moaned. "Michael," she begged. "Pinch me." She panted. "Stroke me." 

He followed her commands and then moved to the crook of her neck to set his teeth to work there, biting her. She whimpered beneath him, pushing her neck toward his teeth, pressing his hands onto her harder. "More," she moaned. He got a little rougher, to her groan of pleasure. "Oh yes," she moaned. "I want you wild." 

He looked up at her, eyes probing. "You like me wild?" He pinched her nipples in just the way she wanted. 

She leaned her head back and moaned before refocusing on him. "Yes, please." She panted. "Ravish me, Michael." 

"You're sure?" he asked calmly, stroking his arousal against her. 

"Oh!" she moaned, spreading her legs further. Her eyes pleaded with him. "Please, Michael." She stopped to pant. "I need you." Her look was so desperate. "Please, please be rough with me. . . . Be wild with me." 

He smiled ferally at her and pinched and twisted the nipples he was holding slightly--in just the way she wanted him to. He pulled them a little before he released them. She threw her head back and moaned. "Like that?" he asked. 

"Mmm, ahh," she panted, refocusing on him. "Yes! . . . Please, more." 

He leaned over to run his mouth just above the skin of her neck. "You like me rough?" He *loved* teasing her like this--loved her needy and total abandon to him. 

She tried to hold his head to her, and he bit at her slightly in response--to her moaning cry. "Oh God, Michael." She panted. "Please, take me savagely." He bit her again, to her scream. "I don't want you human; I want an animal." 

He bit a tender spot in so perfect a way it sent warm shudders all through her. He did it once more before looking up at her. His thumbs rubbed roughly over her nipples. His words were matter-of-fact: "You sure you trust me that much?" 

She groaned and pulled him down roughly to give him a brutal kiss, grazing his lips with her teeth. When she pulled back, her eyes were very dark with desire. "Yes." She took his hands and ran them over herself, leaning her head back to moan at the sensation. His arousal throbbed even more strongly against her; her seduction was definitely working. 

She looked back at him ferally. "Take me, Michael. Do it rough." She panted. "And don't you dare apologize for anything later." 

His eyes flared dangerously at her. "You'll regret this," he warned passionately. 

"Make me," she challenged. 

He let out a low, rumbling growl and closed in on her, his teeth running over her exposed throat. She moaned and held him to her. His tongue traced little trails down her skin and then moved to the side of her neck to bite little lines down it. Her hips began thrusting up against his arousal in need, her depths warm and wet. 

"You're going to bear my marks," he growled at her before finding an ultra-sensitive spot on her neck and commanding it roughly with his teeth. 

She screamed out a moan. "Yes! Yes! I want your marks. Please. . . . Prove I'm yours." 

His teeth bit her more roughly, and she gave a gasping moan. She held him tightly to her, her whole body flooding with throbbing warmth. "Yes!" she groaned, holding him to her--begging for more. 

His teeth continued this rough pattern, while he pinched a nipple between his fingers and twisted it--pulling on it, till it slipped from his fingers. She was crying slightly from desire. "Oh God, more!" she begged. He repeated the pattern on her other breast and closed his teeth more firmly on her. Her head fell back to groan loudly. 

He loved this. He already wanted her so badly he was aching for it, but he was determined to make her even more insane before then. He released her with a stroke of his teeth and looked up at her. "Enjoying this?" he asked casually. She looked at him and let out a moan of need in return. "Good," he smiled. 

He began giving wet kisses down her throat and breastbone, then down further--over her stomach and abdomen. He hovered there for a second, as she opened her eyes to look at him. He then smiled and ran his tongue straight down over the golden hair that protected her depths and along her aching bud before looking up at her slightly. 

She screamed out in desire and took hold of his head to bring him toward her. "Oh God, Michael, yes!" She panted. "Please," she begged--lowering him, "please take me." 

He smiled at her and then suddenly captured her tender bud in his lips, suckling her strongly. Her head fell back, her eyes closed, as she thrust her hips up at him to beg for more. 

He smiled and suckled her more roughly for a second, to her groans of need. Then, however, he lifted his head, waiting until she focused on him. "You taste wonderful, Nikita." He began licking up over her bud repeatedly, sending little jolts of warm desire into her core. 

She was giving short moans, watching--with wide eyes--the incredibly erotic sight of him tasting her. His hand traveled back up to her lips and she grabbed hold of it to bring it into her mouth, suckling the fingers he offered her, moaning--her eyes closed. 

He couldn't take too much of this sensual sight, however. He removed his fingers from her grasp and lowered them back down. Then, while suckling her strongly again, he ran all three of them inside her--stroking as deeply as he could, giving her little time to prepare herself. 

She tilted her head back and moaned loudly, her hips meeting his rhythm--her walls tightening around them to keep them there. "Yessss," she hissed out. 

"Mmm," he moaned against her tender bud. He loved watching her arousal. 

He ran his hand up to take one of hers and placed it on her breast. Her eyes popped open to look at him again. He closed her fingers over her own nipple and let her bud go with a lick, for a second. "Please yourself," he ordered quietly. 

She moaned deeply in response, her hips thrusting back up to him. He leaned back down to run his tongue in circles around her, while his hand began stroking her deep. She moaned, head back--eyes closed--and began to pinch her own nipples, adding an extra wonderful sensation to the ones he gave her. . . . Nothing ever felt as good as him, of course, but she enjoyed the fact--on top of the other intense joys of the moment--that he was enjoying watching her perform. 

After a few minutes of this, he couldn't take being left out of her pleasure, however. He suckled her more strongly and intensified the rhythm of his hand, while he ran the other one up to hold her own hand to her nipple more strongly. 

She was letting out small little groans, her hips bucking against his mouth and his hand. Her head was back, her eyes closed; she was braced precariously on the edge. 

He helped pinch her nipple to get her attention. When she looked back at him, everything he did intensified precariously--his hand stroking her roughly, his mouth suckling strongly, his fingers helping her pinch herself more sharply. 

His eyes hypnotized her, held her in his complete command. "Ahhh-ahhh," she let out, moaning in need. Then, all at the same time, his teeth grazed her bud; his fingers hit her deep--grazing an incredibly sensitive spot, and the fingers of his other hand pinched her fingers over her nipple, pulling it up till they lost their grip. 

"Ohhhhhh-ahhhhhh," she screamed out, tossing her head back into the bed. She was thrashing against him, completely lost to her own aching, throbbing pleasure. 

Her release made him insane for her. If he wasn't inside her soon, he would go mad. 

************ 

He let her bud go with a final, tender lick, withdrew his fingers from her by stroking them down one trembling wall, and removed her hand from her nipple to run a thumb over it a final time. Then, he held onto her hip, positioned himself and entered her in one slow, long thrust--stretching her as he went. 

Nikita was crying with pleasure. Her last orgasm hadn't even finished hitting its peak before his beautiful, thickened length was deep inside her. She looked at him, panting--incapable of speech. 

He held her eyes while bringing the hand which had stroked her up to his lips. He then suckled the wonderful taste of her arousal from his fingers, erotically, while exiting from her just enough to give her a good deep, hard stroke against an incredibly needy inner spot. 

The tears flowed more freely, as one orgasm crashed into another. She looked at him in such love. "Michael," she called desperately--bucking against him, and he leaned down to her, so that she could hold him to her. 

She was sobbing against him, her hips holding him deep within her. Her inner walls were closing tightly around him; her nipples burned against his skin. 

She began suckling on his shoulder, letting out little whimpers, her tears still flowing. Everything inside her seemed to have turned into liquified pleasure. 

"Michael," she moaned against his skin, her tears running along his shoulder. She buried her face in his neck, and her tears covered him further. "Ohhh," she moaned. "Oh God, I love you," she whispered hoarsely. 

He held her to him, running his face in her hair, nuzzling the side of her neck. Her pleasure ran through him; he could feel it as though it were his own. It bound them even further together. He savored the scent of her skin, as he reveled in it. 

It was taking quite some time for her breathing to even begin to return to normal. She was completely overwhelmed. 

He waited for awhile, though--kissing and nuzzling her neck. He had no problem staying like this for awhile; he loved that he had given her so much joy. 

Finally, though--as he felt her tremors begin to die down, he gave her a small bite--to her sigh of pleasure--and finally began to rock into her in a steady rhythm. "Ohhh." She shuddered beneath him and took hold of his hips to help guide him deep into her, a slave to every thrust. 

They looked at each other finally. She had stopped crying but was still shaking a little with pleasure. He smiled at her and kissed her lips softly, his hand stroking the tears off her face. She sighed in pleasure and pulled him deeper into her on the next thrust, while leaning up to capture his mouth. 

He sighed, as well, and then took control of the kiss--holding her neck and head up to him to possess her. He loved her need, loved her desire. . . . God . . . he loved *her*. 

He began moving his thrusts a little deeper. Pleasing Nikita was what made him the happiest--was what made him complete. As much as he adored her erotic skills--as eminently capable she was of giving him fierce releases, he could never derive *any* pleasure unless she was happy. One frown, one look of pain, and his heart shattered. 

He had wanted so often just to hold her, to beg for her forgiveness--to ask her to hold on to him and never let go. He didn't know why she was still with him. He didn't understand it. He kept all of his thrusts very deep within her, creating a warm fire in her innermost core, while he continued his tantalizing, sensual kiss. What he did know, however, was that he was going to enjoy bringing her whatever pleasure he could for as long as he could. . . . If they only were allowed this one more day together, so be it. It was going to be memorable. 

She was being overwhelmed by all his erotic skills again. She found it hard to believe, at times, that he really loved her this much. He kissed her more deeply, as he surprised her by beginning to move his strokes in long, intense lines throughout the whole of her depths. 

"Oh," she moaned, when he released her lips for a split second, before he captured them again. Her doubt sprung, of course, from both her abandoned and brutalized childhood and his own abuses of her. . . . But the love she felt from him when they were together like this couldn't be denied. 

It wasn't simply his passion or skill, either--although they were both formidable. He kissed her even more deeply, almost robbing her of air, and moved himself to ride her body further in. She broke the kiss to groan loudly, before he recaptured her lips once more. . . . No--it was the emotions which sang through her from him when they were intertwined; they weren't the sort you could simply pretend to have. 

She held him in the kiss further and thrust her hips at him more firmly. She wanted more of him. She wanted him to ride her in utter abandonment and need. 

Her walls caught tightly at him with each journey into her, tempting him to give in to his need. His hands framed her face, pulling her more firmly into the kiss for a second before pulling back--his teeth running along her lower lip. "`Kita," he warned. 

Her hands clawed at his shoulders. "Yes, Michael," she begged, grabbing him again on his next deep thrust. 

He took hold of her hips and ground himself roughly into her. "Is that what you want?" he teased her, his breathing more shallow. 

She gasped and leaned her head back to moan. "Yes," she begged. 

He leaned over her to leave wet kisses down her throat, as she moaned from pleasure. His lips then teased over hers again. "I love it when you beg," he breathed against her lips before capturing them roughly again. 

She moaned through the kiss, her hips begging him to speed up his pace. She pulled back to nip at one of his lips. 

"You want more?" he asked her, looking back at her. 

"Yes," she pled, adoringly. 

He let out a low groan, becoming feral again. "Good," he stated definitively. 

He took hold of her from behind and held her up to his deep, rough, demanding strokes. "You like that?" His eyes burned at her. 

"Mmm," she moaned. "Mmm, yes, more." She closed her eyes briefly before looking back at him. 

He smiled ferally at her, leaving his marks on her soft curves, as he stroked into her brutally. "Mmm," he growled. "I love the way you take it." 

She groaned. "Yes," she moaned deeply. She was leaving her own marks on his shoulders. A stroke went deeper, and she moaned again. "Mmmm, yes." She leaned up to bite at his neck. 

He moaned and returned her to the bed, his hands coming up to hold her mouth to his neck. He was riding her brutally deep now, was enchanted by every stroke into her. 

Her need for him had made him utterly feral again, and he knew that she was loving every second of it. "Mmm," he murmured, feeling her teeth on his neck. "That's right, `Kita." He held her head closer to him. "Mark your mate." 

She did, to his half-howl of satisfaction. His hips bore down more heavily onto her, rolling himself ruthlessly into her. "I love how rough you like it," he growled, before dropping his own head to bite at her neck. 

She let him go with a gasp, all of her need trebled by the perfect use of his teeth. "Michael, yes!" She moaned deeply, as he stroked roughly at a tenderly receptive spot within her. Her nails marked his shoulders, as he growled, releasing her neck. 

"You want it hard?" he asked, looking at her. 

"Mmmm," she murmured, as he stroked his brutally solid length into her roughly. "I don't think you have any problem with that." She smiled seductively. 

He growled. "Just for that," he smiled, "I'll give you even more of it." 

She moaned in response, as he took hold of her face and began giving her deep, brutal thrusts, watching her every reaction. She moaned, closing her eyes for a second. "Oh God, yes!" She looked back at him, her eyes very dark with tempting need. "I told you before, Michael--I want an animal, not a man." 

He growled again and began riding her brutally deep--using her shoulders to hold her down on himself. His eyes were controlling. "What does that feel like?" he taunted her. 

She moaned and started biting a spot on his neck again, taunting him further--loving every second of the results. She wanted him even more brutal. "Like a man who knows how to f---," she murmured, goading him, before biting him soundly again. 

He howled in response, her taunts making his need for her unbearable. He wanted to give her a release that would make her explode in desire. 

He broke her away from his neck and made her look at him again. "Then learn to take it like an animal," he growled. 

He brushed his teeth past her lips and then ran them over to bite at her neck. His hands took hold of her soft curves once more and started to pound into her in a hard, staccato rhythm which left her no time for thought or recovery between strokes. "How's that?" he asked, as she groaned. 

"Deeper!" she screamed. 

He growled again and looked back at her. His hands moved to her hips and held her up to him, using her to pull himself brutally into her again and again. "Is that good?" 

She was a little beyond words. She moaned, her nails wounding his shoulders further. 

"That's a better answer," he growled. She mewed beneath him, a slave to his intense rhythm. 

He growled again and found a very sensitive spot in her and started to stroke at it with feral abandon. He pulled her more and more roughly onto his long, throbbing length, as he stroked it brutally into her--hitting her incredibly deep. He was watching her face with intent. "Take it!" he commanded. 

Her head went back submissively, as she whimpered. He gave another rough, brutally deep stroke into her and closed his teeth on a sensitive spot on her neck. 

She let out a feral whine, as she bucked against him. He repeated the action--at greater depth, with greater force--and she screamed loudly, her walls closing on him precariously, as she began to shudder. 

"Mark me," he commanded her, breathing it in her ear, as he ground himself into her. 

She let out a howl, and her nails tore down his back. He leaned his head back and groaned, thrusting more deeply into her one more time; he loved that he made her this wild. If he could have, he would have nursed the marks she gave him to keep them as a tangible reminder of her need. 

************** 

Nikita was utterly overwhelmed by her release. She was still gasping and throbbing, her body tossing helplessly. 

Somewhere in her haze, however, she realized that Michael hadn't joined her in ecstasy. She pried open her eyes to look at him. 

He smiled ferally at her. When the highest crest of her orgasm had passed, he took hold of her hip and pulled out of her slowly--to her gasping, "Noooooo." He leaned down, however, to kiss her quickly and then rolled her over on her stomach. 

He leaned over to her ear, his arousal huge and throbbing against her. "You wanted an animal," he reminded her. 

She groaned in desire. Even though she was still throbbing and shaking from the release he had just given her, she still wanted more. . . . Until Michael came as well, after all, she could never really be complete. 

She followed the intimation in his voice by trying to move herself up to her hands and knees, but she was a little slow--still too overcome with pleasure. He helped her by lifting her by her hips, and she moaned when he moved himself into position behind her. "Ask for your mate," his voice taunted her. 

"Michael," she cried out, needing him desperately. She felt so empty without him. 

He held onto her hips, as he guided himself a little way into her. She moaned. His back was still straight, as he was on his knees behind her. "You want more of me?" he teased her, moving his shaft in and out--just inside her depths. 

She moaned, his actions building on her earlier need. She spread her legs a little further and tilted her hips back toward him. He pushed a little more of himself into her, and she panted in need. "Want . . . all . . . of . . . you," she panted out. 

He smiled behind her. "Then take all of me," he said, pulling her back along his shaft until it was almost completely inside her. 

"Michael," she moaned. She was almost completed. "More." 

He growled and pushed the final inch of himself into her in a single thrust which took her breath away. "Yes," she whimpered. 

"You like that?" he whispered passionately. 

"Ohhhhh," she moaned. He had hit the same precariously sensitive spot with his entry which had brought on her last release. The feeling made her insane. He gave her one little stroke, and she growled out for more. "Michael--ride me, please." He gave her a harder thrust, and she groaned. "Yes, . . . oh yes. . . . Mate with me, my love." 

He growled and grabbed hold of her hips more tightly. His rhythm started out in long thrusts and then became entirely ungentle--to her pleased groans. 

He was striking her deep each time. Every stroke felt huge. She hung her head and moaned out a totally--happily-dominated, "Uhhhh." Her hips tilted further, wanting more. 

He moaned. "If you only knew how good you feel when I stroke you, my beautiful lioness." He seduced her further with his utterly-truthful words. "You were made for this--were made to be taken by your mate." He leaned over her to lick a line along her back. "You were meant only for pleasure," he licked at her shoulder, "both given and received." 

She was still moaning, head down, eyes closed. He felt so good in her--commanded her in just the way she needed him to. 

She needed more. "Michael," she begged, "ride me hard, please. . . . Please, ride your mate." 

Her words made him insane. He ran his hands beneath her to roll her incredibly sensitized nipples roughly between his fingers, as he suckled at her shoulder. He was beating into her very deeply--was being entirely ruthless to a tender spot in her. 

Her head came back up. "Uhhhh, more." 

He pinched her nipples, as he rode her harder--stroking against her tender walls, with each long thrust. "You like that?" 

"Yes!" she cried. "God . . . more." 

He took hold of her shoulders and began to thrust into her more brutally. "You like it like that?" 

"UHHHHHH," she moaned out, becoming overwhelmed. "More!" 

He leaned back up behind her and took hold of her hips once more, pulling her onto him in deep, sharp thrusts; he was growling, loving her willing submission to their shared desire. "Take it!" he commanded. 

"Michael, more!" she screamed. He moved even further in and rode her hard and deep. "Uhhh, yes!" 

He rode her more roughly. She threw her head back, succumbing again to his erotic charms. "Michael, yes! Please . . . be a brute." 

He growled and began pummeling her depths--hitting her core with a rough strike on every thrust. She was giving short little screams. His sac beat against her, as he rode--making him want to ride her even faster. His hands were bruising her hips. 

"Michael," her voice screamed, as she was poised on the edge once again. 

He growled from deep in his throat. His hand circled around her hip to begin stroking her nether bud in time with their rough rhythm. 

She was letting out little "ahhh-ahhh"s with every stroke deep into her core. "You like it?" he asked her, his voice brutal. He got rougher still. 

"Ohhhh, ohhhh," she moaned. She was breathing raggedly, her entire body braced for ecstasy. 

"Very good," his voice shuddered through her. Then he gave her her release by twisting her tender bud, while stroking once more against a desperately sensitive spot inside her--roughly. 

"AHHHHHHHHH!!" she screamed out. He gave another little rotating thrust into her, and she moaned, "Oh Jesus . . . Michael," as she bucked against him--her body overwhelmed by her release once again. 

She was shuddering violently. She finally had to lower herself to her elbows--unable to hold herself up any longer. 

"Mmmm," he murmured, his eyes closed, his hands on her hips. . . . She felt so damn good in her release. 

Once again, though, Nikita realized--after a few minutes when her mind simply wasn't capable of functioning--that he wasn't going to join her here. Once again--when her breathing had settled itself to a vaguely recognizable level, she felt him pull completely out of her, as she cried out at the loss. 

He rolled her over, so he could look at her. She had collapsed of her own weight and ecstasy without him. He leaned over her to stroke his thumb along her cheek. His arousal was huge and bobbing dementedly. He was obviously in intense need. "Please, Nikita," he begged. 

She leaned in to him to take him in her mouth--partly misunderstanding him, partly wanting desperately to give him some semblance of relief. "Noooooo," he cried out, pulling her away from his shaft. He held her up to him and kissed her deeply. "I need you." 

Her eyes--and her mind--were still cloudy with ecstasy. She didn't understand. He lay over on his back and helped position her on top of him. "Please," he begged. "Ride me." 

"Ohhhh," she moaned, finally understanding. *He* needed *her* to be feral--to be the one in control; he needed her to prove how much she wanted him--to prove how much pleasure she took from him. 

She leaned down to kiss him, holding his head up to her for a second. He moaned through it. 

She kissed down his body after that, finally coming to place a light kiss on the end of his tortured arousal. He moaned desperately. "Please." 

She sat back up, holding his eyes--which held such intense love and need for her. She positioned herself over him and took hold of him, running her hand up his long, incredibly thickened length once; he leaned his head back and moaned. 

Once she was ready to take him, she got his attention once more. "Watch, Michael." 

He looked back up at her, his eyes turning possession of his soul over to her. Then she began to lower herself onto him slowly, inch by tight, tantalizing inch. 

Her hands were on his shoulders, as she stopped her descent--eyes closed, when he was almost completely inside of her. She moaned, loving the feeling of him stretching her walls incredibly tightly. Her desire had sprung back to life completely once more; she needed him desperately. She looked back at him. 

He felt entirely the same. He held her hips, as he thrust at her once, sinking himself the rest of the way into her. "Yes," he moaned. 

She moaned lengthily in return and then refocused on him. "God, I love how you feel, Michael." 

He moaned and thrust his hips up at her, begging her to start their rhythm. She smiled, with a moan at the sensation of him, and agreed--beginning to stroke herself up and down him in long thrusts. 

Every thrust, though, hit at the precarious spot inside her he had pleased so often today. It was an overwhelming sensation for both of them. 

"Faster," he gasped out, thrusting himself toward her. "Ride me." His eyes were *so* vulnerable. 

She increased her rhythm, her breathing getting much heavier. He felt so perfect in her--stroked against every millimeter of her wet inner walls in the most beautifully intimate way. . . . God, she loved the way he felt. 

Her head was back--her eyes closed, her mouth open in a sigh, as she rode him--coming to rest heavily on the perilously-aroused tip each journey. He was groaning, watching her; she was so beautiful, and she was gaining such pleasure from him. He couldn't take much more. "Faster," he begged. 

She opened her eyes to look at him and saw his gaze of total devotion. She rode him more quickly, more roughly--her walls catching at him, while she brought his hand up to suckle on his fingers. He moaned, watching--thrusting more heavily up into her in response, every stroke making him gasp. 

Once she had wet his fingers, she ran them down her body to her breast and held him there; he moaned loudly. "`Ki-ta!" He leaned forward to suckle her breast, his head over her heart--loving the incredible intimacy, the intense vulnerability of the moment. 

She rode him faster still, coming to rest on him harder every time, as she held him to her. Her hands stroked through his hair, as she groaned. "Oh Michael," she moaned, "you feel so good." He moaned in response, and they both increased their pace. 

He was licking at her nipple in need, was helping bounce her up and down along his shaft, connecting her heavily with him every time. "Ohhh," she moaned. "More." 

He took hold of her hips and they both helped her ride him faster and more roughly. His devotions at her breast never ceased. 

He suckled her strongly now, as he connected with her in short, hard little thrusts. He was moaning against her breast, while she moaned in response, kissing the top of his head. "`Kita," he murmured for a second at her breast, while he stroked heavily into her once more. 

They both ceased all motion suddenly, the head of his shaft buried very deep inside her. They were both panting heavily, unable to move for several seconds; their tender parts were so incredibly sensitized that they felt every tiny vibration in each other as though it were an earthquake. Then, in total unison, they gave one more deep, hard, grinding stroke and began screaming together. 

Their union was complete; it ran through them in blinding, tightly woven bonds of colored light. Their releases stemmed from and built off of one another--were desperately intense. 

He leaned back on his hands, while his hips thrust convulsively up at her--very deep; his warmth released itself into her core--filled her completely, while her walls trembled fiercely around him--milking him of all of his need. She was leaning forward onto his chest, her breathing coming in short, fast pants; she loved the feeling of him releasing himself inside of her. She moaned, lifting her head up to his ear. "Yes, Michael--come . . . come." 

Her passion-filled words made him moan, and he fell back onto the bed--taking her with him. He turned them both to the side so that he could finish riding out his fierce orgasm with her, so that he could feel every millimeter of her walls trembling around his release. She whimpered lovingly in response. 

He kissed around her face, when he finally began coming down--several minutes later. She was still panting against him, moaning slightly--was still trembling with warmth everywhere, from her core on out. She looked at him with intense love. "Michael," she moaned. 

He looked back at her and put his hand on the side of her face. "My beautiful one," he moaned before kissing her deeply, softly. "My Nikita," he sighed. 

She moaned in response and kissed him once more. "I love you, my Michael," she moaned. 

She kissed him again and then sighed contentedly, tucking her head under his neck, as he rolled himself onto his back--taking her with him. His fingers stroked down her hair. "I will never let you go," he whispered, as she began to fall into a warm, blissful sleep. He held her close to him, repeating his vow to himself. "I will never let you go." Then, his promise made, he finally joined her in the peaceful release of unconsciousness.


	2. Chapter 2

************** 

They woke up together again an hour or so later, their bodies--once more--entwined. Even though the phone call from Section had been a jolt of painful reality for them, they were still utterly aware that they had the rest of the day and night left--and neither of them seemed even marginally willing to waste it. 

Nikita rested her head on the edge of Michael's shoulder, as they focused on each other. They were just enjoying the simple things at the moment: being able to take one another in--having the wonderful opportunity to examine the honest depths of the other's eyes, which reflected back all of the magic of their joined souls. 

It was Nikita who finally broke the silence, sighing slightly before she spoke. "What time do you think it is?" 

He stroked his hand over her hair. "Around ten?" His eyes were running lovingly over her face. 

She looked resigned. "When do you have to go back in tomorrow?" 

He moved his hand down to run lightly over her cheek. "I'll need to leave around eleven." She nodded, and he refocused on her eyes. "I don't want it to end, either," he said quietly, reading her thoughts. 

She was trying to be strong, for herself even more than for him; if she wasn't--if she didn't make herself focus on the positive aspects of their final few hours, then they would pass her by while she mourned, and she would lose this beautiful opportunity forever. "But we do have almost a full day left." 

He gave her a smile which spoke of his admiration and love. He couldn't believe how resolved she was--how determinedly optimistic she was focused on being. She was usually the one, after all, who allowed herself to feel--to experience pain and fear, who admitted her emotions. He wondered a bit whether she were trying to lead him by her example. 

He focused more deeply on her, the back of his hand brushing the hair from her face. He could see--examining her closely, though, that it was more than that. This was an approach *she* needed, too. Without it, she was well aware that she would fall apart--that they would both end up spending the whole day mourning what they couldn't have, instead of enjoying what they could. 

He smiled a little further and leaned in to kiss her softly, briefly, before pulling back. She was right in her unspoken plans; this was what they needed to allow themselves to do, for now. There would come a time to discuss the future later, he was sure, but it was still early in the day yet; they needed to let themselves enjoy it. 

His thumb stroked along her lower lip. She felt utterly bathed in the warmth of love that shone from his eyes; the sun was a pale comparison to them. 

Her eyes, in turn, ran over his beautiful--if rather kiss-swollen--lips, as she watched him speak. "What plans do you have for us, my Nikita?" 

She smiled back up at his eyes. Her mind started making calculations. They had 24 hours left; if they set aside 7 or so to sleep, eat, and recuperate, another 2 to make sure they had discussed all the things they needed to, they . . . . She closed her eyes for a second, trying not to be obsessive about it. She opened her eyes once more to take him in. Whatever the outcome, it still left them a lot of time together. 

Her eyes sparkled at him seductively. "How many more ways do you think we can make love before tomorrow, Michael?" 

An intense heat suddenly flared to life in his gaze. "Is that a challenge?" 

Her smile was a little wicked. "No. Just a suggestion." 

A low growl rose from him. He tangled his hand in her hair and pulled her into a deep, erotic kiss. His arousal began to throb inside her again, at her responding moan. When he finally pulled back to look at her, his eyes were burning. "Where do you want to start?" 

She let out a throaty laugh. There were *so* many places to choose from. 

She did have an idea, though. She put her hand on his hip and pushed him back from her, asking him to withdraw. "Not here--not yet." He understood and did as she had requested, to their shared, deep moan. 

They both slowly sat up, almost in unison. His eyes ran lovingly over her face. "Where?" 

She smiled and rose--holding out her hand to him. He took it and joined her, and she pulled him toward her--into a deep, soft, exploring kiss--one hand on his face. He sighed, still holding her other hand, willingly following the lead of her soft mouth in the kiss. 

After a few minutes, she broke from it and let go of his hand. She smiled at him and then walked a few steps to retrieve the oil from the pocket of her robe. "We both need to be healed, Michael," she said, at his look. 

He smiled back at her in love and desire. She was a few steps in front of him now, but she reached her hand back for him. He took it willingly and followed after her. 

She led them to the bathroom and brought him fully inside it, before shutting the door behind them. At his curious look, she smiled. "Wouldn't want the steam to get out." 

His deep smile met hers. God, she was beautiful. He looked around the small room. "Again?" 

Her smile deepened. "What can I say?" She gave him a brief, teasing kiss--leaning back before he could capture her in it. Her hand stroked down his chest. "I like the way you clean up." 

He looked down at the floor, his lips quirking in a grin before he looked back up. "Sometimes, Nikita," he said, putting his arms around her, "you have a terrible sense of humor." He caught her lips in a deep kiss. She moaned against his lips, returning it fully. 

A minute later, though, she released him with a small nip to his lower lip. "And you love it," she smiled. 

His eyes were loving and utterly honest. "Yes," he whispered huskily before drawing her back into the kiss. They both moaned in it for several more seconds, as his hands roamed her back. 

His groan broke him away from the kiss a second later, though, when he felt her hands rubbing the soothing, arousing oil into the abraded skin of his back. "Oooohhh," he growled, his head back, eyes closed. It took him another second before he could focus on her. "Your hands feel so good." His eyes were heated and loving. 

She smiled back at him. "You like this?" Her hands smoothed down the lines she had given him in her passion over the past several days--lines which were definitely a bit painful for him. 

He took her face in his hands. "Almost as much as I liked you giving them to me in the first place." He pulled her up into another deep kiss, his mouth softly exploring hers. 

"Mmm," she moaned in it. Her hands began to run lower, as she started to massage the soothing treatment into his soft, much tormented curves. 

He moaned loudly at the sensation--at the erotic combination of the warm comfort of the oil and the sensual massage of her hands; his arousal was throbbing strongly in need. His hands held onto her back, as he broke from the kiss, his head back again--his eyes closed. "You like it when I mark you?" she questioned, smiling at him. 

He looked back down at her. His arousal was beating strongly against her; his hands moved up to her shoulders. "I love it," his eyes burned. 

He took the tube with one hand from where she had set it down nearby and then began to give her his own personal healing technique. She moaned, her eyes closing. "We belong to each other, my Nikita." His hands massaged over her hips and against her own soft curves--soothing away the ache he had given her repeatedly there. "It's our right to mark our mates." 

She refocused on him and smiled. He continued his train of thought, his eyes growing a bit more serious--his thoughts a little more somber. "You have to promise me something, my Nikita." He was focusing very deeply on her. "You have to promise me that you'll remember." His hands gave her a final squeeze, to her pleased moan and then moved up to run along her back and shoulders--moving toward her neck. 

She, in turn, began enticingly rubbing the oil into the lines of his neck--soothing away his ache. She was waiting--watching him lovingly--wondering quietly where his soft, determined words were leading. 

He moaned at her touch on his skin--his eyes closing briefly, before he continued. He refocused on her, very serious now. "Promise me that you'll remember that--no matter what happens, no matter what may ever appear to be true--no matter what they force me to do, who they force me to sleep with--I'm *always* yours alone." 

Her eyes were focused lovingly on his, as his hands reached her neck, echoing her treatment of him. She closed her eyes and moaned, her skin coming alive all over her body. 

She loved his words, loved his passion. . . . She loved *him*, body and soul. The only reason she hadn't responded to his soul-touching declaration yet was because she sensed that he wasn't finished, . . . and she had *no* desire to silence his amazing words of love. 

She looked back at him, as he continued. "My body belongs only to you--no one else," he stated firmly, his loving eyes meeting hers. His hands ran down to her chest--soothing her abraded nipples softly in circles with his thumbs; she moaned for him desperately. "You are my only true lover--my *only* choice and fantasy." 

Her hands began to run down his chest, as well, touching him softly to encourage his beautiful words. She stroked them down to soothe his nipples with more of the oil. He closed his eyes to groan loudly, and she leaned down to suckle him for a few seconds, trying to please him with her touch in the same way he had with his voice. 

He let out broken, groaning pants, at the incredible sensation of her perfect mouth taking him in. He held her to him for a second, his arousal throbbing wildly in his need for her. 

Finally, though, he pulled her back to refocus on her. He needed so desperately to make his point to her; his eyes held hers, asking her to listen to him carefully. "My blood moves of its own accord only for you; my heart thunders only because you're near me." He had given up soothing her pains temporarily to stroke her face, trying to ensure that she understood his every word. "My whole body pulses for you--cries out for your touch." 

He was breathing erratically now, his eyes searching hers to be certain she was entirely aware of his utter truthfulness. "I love everything we do together--everything you do to me. I love it when you're gentle and delicate, when your lips trail a light fire over my skin." He mimicked his words by running his lips lightly over the side of her face, desperate to ensure her total reaction. 

She moaned, holding him to her. "Michael," she sighed. 

He looked back at her. "I love it, too, when you claim me--when you're ruthless in your love." He leaned down to run his teeth over her jaw momentarily--to her responding groan. 

He could feel in every beat of her heart that she was understanding him, and he refocused on her--wanting to press his advantage. "If I could, I'd keep your marks on me alive--would keep them as a warning to others that I'm your territory alone, that *no one else* can either understand or fulfill the secrets of my desires." 

"Michael," she whispered again. Her eyes were lost in his gaze. 

He smiled at her, seeing--with growing joy--that she believed; his thumb rubbed over her cheek. "I love every sort of love we share, my Nikita. I love it when you submit, and I love it when you command. I love it when I come away bearing the marks of your passion, and I love to see you marked with my own." 

He leaned down to kiss her nippingly--to her groan--before focusing on her once more. Her eyes were locked to his; she was hanging on his every word, was completely caught up in his erotic honesty. "I love every passionate game we share--love to join with you in a complete surrender to our desire." 

She moaned, about to speak, and he shook his head, asking to be able to finish. "What we have can't be duplicated." He ran his thumb over her cheek. "No one else will ever know what it's like. You're my lover and my life. . . . And *no one else* will ever be part of that." 

Her eyes were tear-filled now. "Michael." 

He stroked his thumb over her cheek, rubbing away a tear escaping the corner of her eye. "No." He leaned down to kiss her softly. "No, my sweet `Kita. Don't cry." He looked back at her. "Even when we aren't together like this, none of that will change." 

Her eyes were overcome with love. He pulled her close to kiss her tenderly once more. "We're mated for life," he whispered near her lips, "and beyond. No matter what may happen to us, no one can ever break us apart." He smiled a little. "If you believe that--if you acknowledge it, then we'll always be together." 

"Michael," she whispered. Her eyes were wet; her thumb stroked over his cheek. Her heart was overflowing with her adoration of his soul. "I'll love you until I die." She closed her eyes for a second--a few more tears escaping her and shook her head a little--realizing how inadequate those words were. "And even death won't stop me." She looked back at him. 

He leaned in to kiss her again, softly and deeply. They both groaned and held onto one another's faces, pulling each other intensely into the kiss. 

They finally leaned back from it after a few minutes, both of their eyes wet. He spoke again. "We may only have a day left, but I want to spend it being with you in every way there is." He smiled and wiped away a tear on her cheek; his look became a little playful. "I want to see how many different ways we can love each other before the next sunrise." 

Her eyes sparked at him, returning his need, her slight sadness disappearing completely. "After today, my Michael," she challenged, "you'll never think of another woman again." 

He shook his head at her, his look serious once more. "No. . . . That day came over four years ago--when I met you." He leaned in close to her lips, his warm breath playing over them. "This is just its true consummation." He captured her lips in full again, searching her sweetness deeply. She groaned, as she held him in it. 

"Michael, yes," she moaned a minute later, as she pulled back from it. Her eyes were vulnerable but so aroused. 

Her hands ran over his shoulders and then down his back to play once again over his soft curves. She pinched him lightly--to his groan. "I love you so much." She held him toward her from behind and then leaned in to him again, her eyes alight with erotic suggestion. "And today, I'm going to share that with you in every way I can find." 

************* 

She took his mouth deeply--offering her soft depths for him to explore, while she pressed his aching arousal against her. He moaned, rubbing himself against her softness, and held her deep in the kiss. 

She returned his moan--a smile half on her lips, very pleased with herself for sparking his need. He broke from the kiss to beg her. "Please, my `Kita . . . touch me." His eyes shone softly at her. "I want to feel you everywhere on me, want to know how much you need me." 

She smiled at him heatedly and reached for the oil again. She led him back to sit on the edge of the tub; he looked up at her, entirely ready for her commands. 

She smiled at him and then rubbed her thumb along his lower lip, spreading the healing treatment there--to his moan. "I love everything about you, Michael." She smiled more broadly. One hand ran up to stroke through his shortened locks, as she focused on them. "Your hair is just the right shade to entice." She refocused on his eyes; she laughed a little. "You have no idea how many hours I've spent debating exactly what color it is." Her fingers ran back through it. "It changes with the light." 

He moaned, and she removed her hand from his lip--returning it to retrieve some more of the healing oil. Meanwhile, she leaned over to his hair and inhaled near it. "Mmm," she kissed the top of his head, then ran her lips to his temple. "You're a never-ending list of erotic delights." 

He moaned at her words, his eyes closed. The moan only deepened when he felt her thumb return to stroke over his upper lip. His eyes popped open to look at her, as she refocused on him--her other thumb roaming over his cheek. 

She continued her erotic verbal torment. "You're so beautiful, my love." She stroked near his temple, focusing on him deeply. "Your eyes especially." She gave him a smile so full of love and desire it made him groan. "You have no idea how much I've loved being able to look in them the last few days and see your soul." She smiled. "You have no idea how bright it makes them." 

She leaned in to kiss an eyelid he had closed for her. She refocused on him--her eyes sparking in desire, as she stood back up. "You have no idea how beautiful they are when you come." 

He groaned again and took the thumb she was lightly stroking his lips with in to suckle it deeply. "Mmm," she moaned, focusing down on his lips. "You're right--I love them too." She smiled deeply, her tongue running across her upper lip. He groaned and stroked her thumb lightly with his teeth. 

A low growl emanated from her chest. "Mmm," she smiled, "you *do* do that *very* well. Maybe I'll give you a chance to try your mouth elsewhere later." 

She removed her thumb from his groaning mouth and smiled at him. She lowered herself to her knees in front of him, her hand running over to obtain more of the oil to continue her work. "I love your neck," she murmured, running some non-oiled fingers over it. "But your chest, . . . mmm," she moaned again, looking back up to meet his eyes, "it was sculpted to be touched." 

His hands massaged near her shoulders--his eyes her willing, erotic captive. Every second of this sweet torment she was gifting him with was making his soul burn with life. 

Her hands ran down him until she began to spread the oil around his small, hard nipples once again--increasing the erotic desire they felt for her touch. He leaned his head back and groaned, eyes closed. "Mmm," she murmured, "you like that, don't you, Michael?" 

The oil spread its magical warmth into his tender flesh once more. He moaned at the sensation--and at the wonderful feeling of her hands on him; his arousal was throbbing dementedly for her. "Yessss," he moaned, looking back at her. "I love how you touch me." 

She smiled at him, holding his eyes, and leaned forward to kiss and run her tongue softly down his breastbone. He groaned loudly, both from the sensation and the erotic vision of her. 

When she was finally close to taking a nipple in her mouth, he moaned--the noise getting much louder at her words. "Tell me how it feels," she ordered before suckling him softly. 

He groaned and leaned his head back again, eyes closing once more. "Uhhhh," he groaned out, holding her to him. "You feel," he panted, searching for even remotely adequate words, "you feel like warm desire. . . . Uhhhh," he moaned again. "You feel like erotic comfort." 

His loving eyes locked with hers again to see the smile on her lips, as she suckled at him. She ran her teeth lightly over him, as she pulled back. "So do you," she stated simply. He groaned loudly in response. 

She sat back on her knees, watching him again. Her hands ran up and down the strong length of his thighs. "I love everything about you," she smiled. "There's nowhere I don't want to touch you." Her hand ran back to the oil again. "But there's one place I love touching you best." 

His breathing was highly erratic, as her hand came down to stroke entirely along his length. She rubbed her oiled thumb over the head of it for a second, while his shaft throbbed in her hand. Then, while holding his gaze, she lowered her head to run the tip of her tongue in circles on the incredibly sensitive point. 

He moaned deep in his chest, and she raised her head for a second, still stroking along him with her hand. "How does it feel, Michael?" She lowered her head to lick over him again. 

He groaned out in response. His eyes were so soulful, . . . and that soul was entirely hers. "Like being worshiped by an angel." 

She smiled and took his tip in her mouth to suckle him. He moaned and ran his hands into her hair, stroking her up and down himself lightly. "Mmm," she moaned. 

"Uhhhh," he groaned out for her. The sight of her willingly allowing herself to be led by him--of her happy, aroused eyes, as she moved on him--was almost too much. "My God," he moaned, panting a little. He stroked her along him a little faster. "You take me like no one else ever can." He groaned. "You love me like a goddess." 

He wanted this to continue--knew that she would happily bring him to yet another staggering release this way, . . . but--in a way--he didn't want her to. He wanted to fulfill her--wanted to tell her how much he loved her every intimate detail while filling her completely, while stroking her into an aching, gasping orgasm. He wanted to be the lover of her dreams. . . . And he wanted to be it right now. 

He pulled her back from him finally, his breathing ragged--his arousal huge and throbbing for her. He shook his head. "I want you, my `Kita, but not like that--not right now." He stroked her cheek. "Please, let me serve you." 

She groaned. "Do you want to?" 

He let out a low noise from his soul and pulled her up into a deep, captivating kiss--their tongues almost dueling. He held her to him strongly, as she moaned out in desire. 

He growled, leaning back from it. "Yes," he rumbled. He recaptured her lips once more, as she whimpered. 

He stood them both up, as he continued the kiss. Her hands were starting to claw lightly at his back again. 

He broke away from it finally to focus on her heatedly. "You're mine--you will *always* be mine, no one else's." 

She nodded. "Yes, Michael." 

He found and spread a bit of the oil on his fingers before beginning to trail it up her leg toward her depths. She groaned--her head back, as he entered her, his fingers running the deep comfort into her. She was already wet and in need for him. She clenched her walls around his fingers, wanting more, as he stroked her; she was groaning desperately. 

The thumb of his other hand came up to rub the soothing oil onto her bruised lips. She moaned and took him in to suckle him, her eyes opening to focus on him desperately. 

"Yes," he growled. He gave her one more deep stroke, before removing his fingers--to her disappointed moan. He pulled his thumb out of her mouth, as she ran her teeth along him. He growled deeply again. 

He leaned back to turn on the shower. "I'm yours, my Nikita." He led her into the warm spray, and she trembled with the sensation; her skin was already so sensitized by the oil and his hands that the addition of the warm, pelting water was like having every individual pore of her skin brought into erotic life. She leaned her head back--her back toward the water--and ran her hands up to smooth back her hair. 

Michael growled deeply, having entered the shower after her and closed the curtains. The sight she created was too much for him. He took hold of her back and drew her toward himself, drawing in one of her nipples to suckle it roughly. 

She moaned loudly, holding him to her desperately. "Michael," she begged. God, she needed him. 

The water surrounded them both, heightening their senses. He continued suckling roughly at her, his teeth running back and forth over an indescribably-aroused nipple--which was then partly soothed, partly further sensitized by the water which hit it every time he moved away. 

Her moans got louder. He looked back up to her. "Yes." His hands ran strongly up and down her sides, as the water fell between them. 

He traced a heat into her flesh; his thumbs came back up to rub over her twin buds, to her groan. "These were made for me alone," he told her plainly. His thumbs stroked her more roughly. "The only others who'll ever have any right to them would be any children we could have." 

She swallowed heavily, moaning; her eyes were tearing slightly. So were his, but--for both of them--it mixed in with the spray from the shower. 

He leaned down to suckle her again for a second--to her pleased moan--before rising once more to face her. "I want to create those children with you now, my love." 

"Michael," her voice breathed in surprise, both at his statement and his choice of names for her. They both knew that the first wasn't possible, on so many levels. The second, too, hinted at such great depths of emotion from him--ones he rarely ever admitted to her . . . to anyone. 

His hand stroked the side of her face. His eyes teared further, as he ran a thumb under her eye to wipe away her tears; he could see them clearly, despite the camouflage of the spray. "I know we can't," he told her quietly about his request. "I know," he soothed. "But this is *our* time, *our* place, and--for now--we can pretend." 

She groaned, overwhelmed by his suggestion. She had always dreamed of it, of course, but it was only in the past few days that Michael had really begun to open himself to her about such dreams--only now that she knew he shared them. She caught his face in her hands, desperate to share this sweet fantasy with him--more than willing to pretend, if only temporarily, that they could have something so normal together. "Yes, Michael. . . . Please." 

He moaned and drew her into a deep kiss, a kiss which captured her--which commanded and drew strength from her. When he pulled back from it, he was panting--almost sobbing. His eyes caught hers completely. "This time I'll do it right, my Nikita. This time I'll be a true father, with a true wife, and I'll give our child everything on earth she'll deserve." He couldn't help thinking of any child of theirs as a girl--as a small representation of Nikita herself. "I will," he promised, "if only for our brief time together." 

She let out a soul-deep groan. "Michael," she moaned. She began to draw him into another kiss. "Please, yes." 

He stopped himself just at her lips, telling her a truth she needed to hear. "You're my wife, my Nikita--the partner to my heart and soul." His eyes burned fiercely. "*Nothing* Section can do will *ever* change that." He leaned in and captured her mouth deeply. 

She groaned, her soft mouth invaded by his. His words had caught her soul; she could barely believe she had heard them. 

She needed him--loved him so desperately. She moaned, as she pulled back momentarily, at a loss for words which could ever adequately capture her feelings; she still couldn't quite accept the concept of him *wanting* to be her husband. She told him what her voice would allow her to. "Yes, Michael," she moaned. "I want your child." 

"*Our* child," he stated firmly before capturing her lips possessively again. She whimpered her overwhelmed agreement. 

They held each other there--Michael kissing her fiercely, to her moaning acceptance--for several minutes. Finally, though, he pulled back for a second, locking eyes with her; he could still sense her reluctance to believe--her fear that her senses were deceiving her. "Do you want your husband, my `Kita?" 

"Michael," she moaned in response, her eyes locked to his. 

He stroked the side of her face tenderly. His arousal was beating against her furiously, but he was ignoring it; he needed to make this point to her. "I am always yours alone, my love. *Everything* else will always be a lie." He kissed her tenderly again--to her moan--before refocusing on her. "Now, do you want me as your husband--as the father of your child?" 

"Yes," she groaned out from her soul--the answer working its ways past all of her fears. "Please yes, my Michael . . . please, yes." Her eyes were so desperate for him, were so desperate to believe. 

Her hand stroked along his cheek; she wanted so much to feel their child growing inside her--wanted to share every pain, joy, and boredom of parenthood with him. He was the *only* man who could ever father her child. "I can only create life with you," she moaned. 

He captured her deeply--almost savagely--in the kiss again, his relief at her desire flowing a fire through his veins. She moaned deeply in it. 

When he pulled back after a few seconds, he groaned out, "And I'm only alive *with* you, my love." 

She moaned in need, and he captured her lips once more before lifting her, leaning her back against the shower's wall. She wrapped her legs around him, as he held her aloft--just above his throbbing arousal. "Do you want me, my love?" he asked her softly. 

"Please, Michael, yes," she moaned. He wouldn't lower her, though--wouldn't allow her to join with him. His eyes still searched hers. She moaned out loudly again. "Please, Michael." She leaned down to kiss around his face. 

She was beginning to understand his delay now--could feel his fears in his soul; she tried to allay them. "Please, my dear husband," she whispered, an inch from his lips. 

He groaned out and pulled her head down to his--recapturing her in the kiss, his fears dissipating slightly. . . . He still needed to know for certain that she believed, though. He broke from the kiss to look at her seriously--pleadingly. "Do you take me as your husband, Ni-ki-ta?" 

She moaned. His eyes had connected with her soul; the truth and love in them had washed away her fears. Her hands pulled his head toward her. "Yes, my Michael." She groaned, her eyes tearing. "Please, my dear husband," she said, feeling the words in her soul; she kissed him softly. "Take me." 

************* 

He moaned and pulled her into a deep, erotic kiss. "My wife--Nikita," he moaned, leaning back from it for an instant before capturing her mouth deeply again. 

His hands finally allowed what they both needed desperately--their union. He began to lower her hips over him--began to cover his full length with her tight, warm depths--stretching her deeply with his entry. 

Her head went back against the wall. "Uhhh," she moaned. 

He watched her every expression, as he entered her--enraptured by her every look and sound. It amazed him endlessly that this beautiful, soulful creature wanted him--needed him so much. . . . It was a miracle he would never take for granted. 

He pulled her hips down in one more deep stroke and rested himself completely within her--the head of his shaft striking her incredibly deep. "Miiiiichaaael," she moaned out. She looked back at him, her eyes giving over to him everything she was. 

He saw her love for him in her eyes; he smiled at her. "Yes, my dear wife," he kissed her lips softly, "I'm always here." Feeling her adjust enough to his generous length, he gave her the first deep stroke. "I'm always inside you." 

"My husband," she moaned. She grabbed his head in her hands and pulled him into a deep, demanding kiss--her tongue exploring and commanding his mouth. He gave her another deep stroke, and her head went back again. 

She swallowed heavily. "Yes," she looked at him. "God, yes." Her hands stroked back through his wet hair. "Ride me, my sweet husband." She kissed nippingly over his lips. "Give your wife the beautiful gift you promised her." 

He groaned deeply at her words. God, she knew just what to say to him. He needed her more desperately than he could ever possibly express. 

He pulled her hips back before bringing her down to rest heavily on him again--to her moan of pleasure and need. "Yes, my sweet wife . . . yes." 

Their rhythm started in earnest then. Michael helped her ride him--helped her move her hips back and forth along his long, thickened shaft; the head of it hit her core deeply with each stroke, and they both moaned heavily--watching each other's eyes in incredible love and need. 

"God, yes, my Nikita," he moaned. The water from the shower fell between them, heightening their every sensation intensely--making their need for each other burn within them. "I've always wanted to ride you this way." 

She moaned loudly at his confession and sped up their rhythm. "Yes, Michael, yes." The head of his shaft hit her harder on each thrust, to her deep groan. "Please," she moaned. "Show me your fantasy. I want to be your fantasy." 

He groaned and started to pull her head down toward him with one hand. "You are," he stated firmly. He captured her lips commandingly, to her aroused groan. 

He sped them up again, their strokes becoming harder. He drew his teeth softly back over her bottom lip, momentarily. "My wife," he added--breathing it over her lips before recapturing them. 

She groaned desperately. "Michael," she moaned out in need, breaking the kiss. "Please, ride me harder, my husband." She panted. "Show me your need." 

"Yes," he growled. He took hold of her hips more firmly and used them to propel her roughly up and down his thick shaft, impacting her deeply on it with each pass. She moaned, her head back. "Yesssss." 

He groaned. "Yes," she echoed him. He leaned up to kiss down her neck, his teeth coming out to torment all of the tender spots on her flesh. 

She moaned and held him to her. "Harder!" She panted. "Oh God, my sweet husband--take me." 

He moaned against her skin and continued his quiet torment. His teeth got rougher at the aroused, needy points on her neck. His hands went to her soft curves and pulled her on him--in their rhythm--in abandon. "You like that?" he asked, looking up at her momentarily. 

She groaned, her eyes closing for a second, as he returned to her neck. "More!" She panted. "Please more." 

"Yes, my wife, yes," he moaned. He ran his tongue up and down along her throat, nipping a little at the sensitive areas. He pushed her more firmly up against the wall, her legs spreading a little further--still wrapped around him, while his rhythm grew faster and deeper. 

"UHHH," she groaned. "Yes, Michael!" she called. "More!" 

He increased his rhythm again, stroking more deeply into her each time--to her needy, weeping moan. "Yes, my `Kita, yes." He moaned and got a little rougher. 

He pulled her head forward and kissed her cheek, and she looked back at him--her eyes lost in her love for him. His other hand ran up--behind her shoulder, and he held her head with them; her weight rested on his aching length and on the insides of his elbows against her underarms. "We have a life to create--a child to nourish." 

She panted, moaning--her eyes overwhelmed by the look in his--a look of need and utter devotion; she could no longer deny the absolute truth of his feelings. "Michael, yes, please . . . please." 

He began giving her deep, sharp, staccato strokes--strokes which sent a growing, intense spiral of warmth into her; he never left the depths of her core. "Mmm," he moaned. "You feel so good, my wife." He kissed her deeply and lovingly, holding her head demandingly to him; she whimpered in it--lost completely to his soul. 

He began giving her deeper and sharper strokes; she moaned out loudly, leaning back from the kiss to reconnect with his desperate eyes. "Michael, yes, please." Her hands framed his face. "Take me deep." Her eyes pleaded with him. "Give your wife your gift, my sweet husband." Her walls grabbed at him. "Give me your gift of life." 

He moaned hoarsely and grew far rougher with her. "Yes . . . yes. Take this from me," he moaned. He could feel just how close to the edge she was, so he got even rougher--his strokes incredibly deep. "Create with me, my `Kita." 

He kissed her desperately, to her whimpering moan, before pulling back. His hands held her head; his eyes connected completely with hers. "Create our child with me, my love." 

"Yes," she moaned. "Oh, Michael, I love you--yes!" Her walls tightened on him precariously--begging for completion. 

"Yes, my beautiful love," he moaned, "yes." He gave her another deep, rotating stroke and then pulled back--almost out of her. Her eyes widened. "Yes, my wife." He gave her a brutal, shockingly deep thrust--hitting her depths once with wild intensity. She screamed out--her eyes locked to his, her body trembling. He then did it again--twice--at even greater depth and force. 

Her body jerked against him. She was leaning back against the wall, moaning and quivering. He held onto her shoulders and pressed her downward, grinding her dangerously-sensitized depths onto his hard, intense length--roughly and deeply. 

She screamed loudly, her eyes closing, her head back. She was bucking against him, as her orgasm trembled her against him, her breathing coming in little shallow pants. 

"Yes," he moaned desperately, watching her pleasure, spellbound. Her depths tightened almost painfully on his incredibly-sensitized length--the head almost alive in its need. 

She let out little moaning whimpers and looked at him--tears running from her eyes, as he held her on him deeply, watching her. Her enraptured gaze held so much intense love for him. 

The noises--the look were too much for him. He couldn't take any more. He leaned in to her to run his tongue down her breastbone, until he moved over to begin suckling at one of her breasts roughly. Nikita let out a strangled, desperate groan. He bit the nipple just enough and looked up to meet her widened eyes. "Once more," he moaned before returning his mouth to her breast. 

He suckled her sharply, as she let out a screaming moan. He gave her three more deep, intensely rough thrusts--his huge head rampaging through her tight, shuddering, silken warmth to command her--hitting her achingly-sensitive, throbbing core brutally each time. 

She felt every minute portion of his huge length in his rough advance on her already-trembling depths. She leaned her head back and screamed, "MIIIIIIICCCHHHAAAEEEELLLL!!!" 

He let out a choking scream and gave her one more rotating, deep thrust. As he connected with her, he howled, "`KI-TAAAAA!!!" 

He was so far into her it seemed impossible. She felt his shaft jerk once, twice, then thrash itself strongly against her sensitive walls, as it released the treasure she sought. She was gasping. "Yesssss," she moaned. 

She looked down at him, at the same moment he was looking up. He groaned at the look in her eyes--his hips still thrusting convulsively at her, hitting her deep, as his warmth spread into her. 

Their look connected their souls. They both groaned and leaned in to capture each other's lips desperately--deeply. 

It was there that they felt it--their overwhelming bond. They were each whimpering desperately, as they rode out their orgasm together. Their souls connected through the kiss, creating a whole--creating a total union of spirit. 

Had there not been some form of prevention in use--thanks to Section--there would have been a physical life created that morning, one which would have been born--unlike so many--out of pure, intense love . . . out of the intimate, holy connection between two souls. . . . There was just too much love between them to be contained in two separate bodies, anymore. 

As it was, though, they could only pretend--could only imagine the child they would have created, had they been given any true chance. They continued to kiss in abandon, the incredible warmth and connection between them making any other form of communication impossible. 

They weren't mournful for what they had missed. There was only love between them at that moment--only a complete flowing together of souls. Even without some physical proof of their love, they were still creating a union which was blessed--which was far more pure than anything which could normally be expected on earth. 

They both sighed, as the kiss finally grew less demanding, several minutes later. They were both still shaking. Michael put his hand on the wall, in order to continue being able to stand--in order to keep them both upright. 

Like every other experience for them, it had been overwhelming; it had connected them on a level neither one could consciously have explained or expressed. All they knew--again--was that they were whole once more. 

Michael's hand stroked along her cheek softly, his thumb tracing along it. They both began to recognize the water falling around them again, both began to remember where they were. They kissed softly once more. The encounter had been so emotionally overwhelming that it was taking them awhile to return to physical form again--back into their separate bodies. 

They smiled at one another, as they focused deeply on the other's soul--through their eyes. Nikita finally unwrapped her legs from around him and tentatively tried to put her weight on them. "Thank you, my wife," Michael whispered to her. 

She leaned in to kiss him softly. "Thank you, my sweet Michael," she whispered over his lips. She refocused on his eyes, her hand cupping his face--her thumb stroking along his cheek; her look connected with his soul. "I love you, my dear husband." 

His thumb rubbed over her lip. There were tears in his soft, adoring eyes. "Thank you, my love," he whispered, expressing his whole soul in the words. 

She smiled back at him softly and lovingly. . . . He had, after all, just come one step closer to saying the words. 

************* 

They had stayed in the shower for quite some time after that--had finally disunited themselves on a slow sigh and had then gone about quietly washing one another's bodies softly. They had shampooed each other's hair silently--Nikita stopping before her turn with Michael to rub some of Section's oil into his scalp, which she had damaged so frequently in her passion of late. Afterwards, they had dried one another slowly and then reapplied some of the oil to their more troublesome marks of passion. . . . They did, after all, want to be prepared for the rest of a day of lovemaking. 

They had enjoyed every tiny second of their attentions from and to the other--every one, like all of the other small moments of their little vacation from the crueler realities of their lives, was being stored away in their minds, hearts, and souls for the hard times which were undoubtedly ahead. They weren't going to let anything they wanted pass undone or unsaid. If this was their last day together, they would savor it--like a resigned condemned prisoner's final meal. 

They had finally emerged from their shared ablutions in their traditional attire of the past few days. The shower, though, had relaxed them intensely. Nikita seemed to sag back against a wall a little, as they came out of the bathroom. 

Michael looked at her. "Would you like to take a nap?" 

She shook her head. "No." She sighed. "Not enough time." She didn't really want to waste their one last day together sleeping. 

He smiled at her, his thumb running along her jaw. "There's enough time for anything we want. This day is whatever we make of it." 

He had already proven that, she thought. She smiled at him softly, thinking back on their shower; she was still a little surprised at the fantasy he had wanted to share with her there, but she *certainly* wasn't complaining. . . . It was a memory she would cherish for the rest of her life. 

She wondered suddenly, though, whether he had intended that to be a final time for them. She cocked her head at him. "Do you want to sleep?" 

His look was serious. "I'll do anything you want, my `Kita." He seemed to be memorizing her features. "So long as I can hold you, I'll sleep happily." 

She looked curious. "Even if we didn't make love again?" 

He leaned in to kiss her, softly and deeply; she moaned in response. "I'm not spending time with you for sex, Nikita," he said, leaning back from it finally. "I'll happily do anything you want, so long as our time is spent together." 

She loved his answer, but she decided she wanted to tease him a little; she was *so* enjoying having the chance to be playful with him. She smiled a bit mischievously. "Have I worn you out, Michael?" 

A very low growl rumbled in his chest, his eyes suddenly alight with his desire for her; he loved the joyful way she had been approaching him the last several days--it aroused him unspeakably . . . ferally. "Don't tease me, `Kita," he warned her with bright eyes. "You may not like where it leads." 

She smiled back knowingly, trying to repress the slight growl rising from her chest. "I'm sure I would." 

His eyes focused on hers heatedly, a growl still reverberating in him. He changed the subject, not entirely certain that she was doing more than simply teasing him. "Let's make the bed." 

She smiled, giving in mockingly. "If you insist," she smiled. She walked over to the mattress to begin stripping it. 

He noticed that her robe seemed to be more loosely tied around her and realized that she had done it on purpose. It gapped open just enough to give him an occasional view of her breast or a hint of her thigh, before closing her tantalizing body off from his sight again, as she moved around in her task. He growled. "Temptress," his voice rumbled softly behind her. 

She looked back at him in mock innocence, loving the fact that she could arouse him so easily--loving that she could do it in a way she knew for certain would leave him cold and unmoved with anyone else. She had seen a few female recruits who had tried to get his attention by flashing bits of flesh at him. While his reputation tended to keep most of them at a quietly lustful distance--simply hoping to catch his eye, there had been one who had been so bold as to come out of the shower area shirtless--when he had come to speak with her, in an attempt to entice him; despite that woman's more obvious physical charms, as well, Michael had simply told her what he had come to--only adding at the end, "You're not up to dress code," before walking away as unmoved as he had arrived. 

Nikita tried desperately to hide her self-satisfied grin, repressing a happy laugh over the fact that she could tease him so effectively. She loved the erotic hold she seemed to have on him. "Aren't you going to help?" 

His eyes burned sensually at her, as he stood, watching her performance. He was enjoying every tiny second of this torment--of this little game she had set up; she was baiting a lion--with herself as the bait, and it was obvious that she was praying he would, eventually, savage her. 

He loved it. He had no intention, therefore, of breaking out of the part she had assigned him. He didn't move. 

She looked down his body to the growing bulge which was hidden beneath the material of his pants. She looked back up at him with a small grin. "Ah. I see you're busy." She shrugged. "Oh well," she sighed semi-dramatically. "A woman's work is never done, I suppose." 

He repressed a growl, as she removed the last set of sheets and brushed past him, completely intentionally, on her way to the hamper. Her look of innocence wasn't even a very good attempt. "Oh, sorry," she smiled, moving past him finally. 

His arousal was beating intensely in its confinement. He shook his head slightly at himself, as she had her back turned. Her seduction was so unsubtle it was ludicrous, and he was falling--hell, was *jumping*--for it with all of his power. He tried not to laugh aloud. Only she could do this to him; only she had this power to seduce him in every way—from the quiet to the insanely obvious. 

He was loving this every bit as much as she was--was loving her passionate little game. He knew she expected him to put up with it, until he broke in a frenzy of controlling, commanding desire, and he also knew that they were both waiting for that to happen with incredible anticipation. He smiled deeply. . . . God, he loved her--passion, fire, playfulness, and all. 

He had managed--somehow--to repress his smile by the time she emerged with the new sheets, keeping his role in their game intact. Her robe was even looser this time--was even more obvious. "Vixen," he thought to himself. 

"Still not going to help?" she asked, in playful ignorance, again. He kept his look even, and she flung out another semi-dramatic sigh. "Ah well." 

She moved back to the mattress and began to replace the sheets. Her movements gave him more than a glimpse of so many of the parts of her he loved to touch. He was trying to repress a low growl. 

She smiled quietly to herself, when her back was to him, feeling his heated gaze singeing her skin. She tried to repress her throaty laugh. 

He continued to watch--increasingly aroused. It didn't matter that he had been able to familiarize himself with her body so thoroughly these past few days; it hadn't diminished his desire in the least. In fact, having been so close to her--having been given such constant reminders that she was not simply as amazing as he remembered but more so, just made his need for her all the more intense. 

If they could truly be husband and wife, in a lawful sense--if such things could apply to or mean anything to them, he would never grow bored or tired of seeing her revealed beauty. He would, instead, worship it frequently--would remind her constantly that he would *always* want her. 

He was still spellbound, as he watched her. He was having a hard time, in fact, keeping up the cold demeanor this game required, since--as she worked--her robe gaped open further and further, intentionally tormenting him. 

His true emotion, in fact, wasn't even close to annoyance or cold distance. Indeed, it was something closer to awe--to utter devotion. Her body was holy to him--was the perfect, lovely form which God had created to house her unspeakably beautiful soul. . . . He wanted to spend the rest of his life worshiping it as the revealed miracle it was. 

He didn't let this show, however--forced himself to stand stock still, as she put on her conscious display. Nikita, even though she only looked back at him once or twice, as well, still knew he was watching her; she could feel his eyes--the heat from his body from across the room. 

Her seduction technique, right now, was deliberately juvenile. They both understood her point: no matter how she might try to woo him, no matter how utterly lacking in skill, it wouldn't matter. She needed no art at all to entice him; he was hers completely, regardless of any arbitrary factors. . . . That would *never* change. 

She knew, too--by his agreement to take his part in this little bit of playacting, that he was acknowledging this fact, as well. He was willingly submitting to her--rather silly--chosen form of seduction, was adoring being able to please her through this game. She tried to repress a smile. . . . God, she loved him. 

Her robe had been opening further and further, as she worked. By the time she was finishing up, it was almost a simple drape around her shoulders with a vague belt. 

She looked back at him to throw him one final comment, preparing him for the climax of their game. The sheets were almost completely on the bed--just one corner was left to be done. "You're not going to help at *all*?" she pouted. She tried to repress a giggle when she saw his arousal jump in response. She heaved a heavy sigh and then proceeded to pull up her robe to her waist, in a supposed attempt to keep it out of her way, while she finished up. 

That was the final bit of playacting he could take. He was throbbing insanely with need for her. Part of his mind was still too aware that this was their last day, too; he wasn't going to miss a single opportunity to be with her. 

************* 

He was on her within seconds, was lying flat with her beneath him--her robe still pushed up to her waist, his hands caressing the soft skin of her stomach--just up to below her breasts. "Right on time," she thought to herself. 

He had pulled down the shoulder of her robe and was suckling at the beautiful skin there, moving up toward her neck in small bites. "Mmm," she moaned. 

His hands beneath her ran along the long swaths of skin the robe had parted to reveal. He moved his fingers up finally to roam over her breasts, pinching at her nipples lightly. "Temptress," he whispered, biting at her earlobe. 

She smiled happily. She could feel him throbbing behind her. "What took you so long?" she teased, looking at him. 

He bit lightly at a tender bit of skin near her collarbone in response--to her slight moan. "So sorry to have kept you waiting." He pinched her nipples again, to her louder groan. 

She smiled, her breathing having sped up considerably. "I'll forgive you--this time." 

He bit lightly at the spot again. "Don't." She shuddered pleasurably from the word--and the passionate timbre of his voice; he moved his bites up her neck to several even more tender spots. "I like you unforgiving." He bit more sharply at a delicate patch of skin. 

She moaned, trembling slightly in sensual anticipation. "Yes." She held his head to her, moaning. He bit her slightly more ruthlessly, and she felt herself melting in submission and desire to this man that--in this place--she trusted with her soul. "You want me cruel?" 

He moaned and bit her again, to her louder moan. "Among other things," he whispered in a hot breath at her ear. He began nibbling on the lobe. 

"Mmmm," she moaned out, trying to move him back to her neck. "Harder." 

"Hmmm," his murmur was a slight laugh of happiness. "How do you want me, `Kita?" He bit a tender spot again. 

"Ohhhh," she moaned. "Rough, wild . . . ruthless." He began tormenting a new spot. "Mmmm, yes," she smiled. "Control me, Michael." He bit her harder, to her groan. "Use me for your fulfillment." He began nibbling under her jaw line. "I want to be the woman in your dearest fantasies." 

"Mmmm." He licked lightly at an aroused spot while pinching her nipples once more. "You already are, my love. . . . You always will be." He ran his teeth just over the surface of her neck. 

"Yes," she moaned. "Prove it to me, Michael. . . . Show me." 

He ran his lips near hers. "You want me to use you for my own pleasure?" 

She moaned, capturing his enticing lips. She held him in a needy kiss before he pulled back to look at her. "Yes," she moaned before trying to kiss him again. 

"Mmmm," he nipped over her lips but didn't kiss her. "And you don't mind if I'm rough with you?" His eyes were mockingly innocent, knowing full well that he was simply arousing her further. 

"Ohhhh," she moaned. "Please. . . . Use me." 

He nipped over her lips again. "Very well." He ran his hands down behind her to stroke up over her soft curves and then pushed the robe farther up--revealing her back. "Mmmm," he moaned slightly. He licked a line over it. "Where do I begin?" 

Oh God. Anywhere would do, she knew. She loved being the object of his desire. 

He pulled away from her--to her groan at losing him. "Michael." 

He smiled to himself and took hold of a shoulder to roll her over. She landed softly on her back, her robe open--her gorgeous body revealed to his view. "Mmmm," he growled slightly. His eyes ran in heated lines up her body to hers. "Where do I begin with this new toy?" he asked, half-innocently. 

She growled in response. She was more than willing to be "played with" by him. She settled herself so that her body was utterly open to any of his needs. 

He smiled down at her. He really was at a bit of a loss. Where did you even begin to gain pleasure from someone so completely adept at it--whose body was a connected series of intensely-arousing parts? There were so *many* possibilities. 

He decided, though, finally, on what was most important. He had to be able to feel her beneath him; he couldn't stand any barriers. 

He stood up, keeping constant, heated eye contact to assure her that he was going nowhere. Then, he looked down with his eyes to direct her attention. 

He smiled, as he saw her eyes widen--following his orders. She looked down him to see his hands paused at his waistband--preparing to slowly reveal himself to her. Her breathing escalated dangerously. 

He showed himself to her in a slow striptease--so slow that she was moaning desperately, wanting more. When he finally revealed himself--and discarded his one item of clothing on the side of the mattress, he stood above her--letting her eyes scald him with her heated gaze. 

Her mouth was open, her eyes wide, her breathing unsteady. Her legs fell apart slightly more, as she squirmed beneath him. Her tongue ran out to touch her lips--running over them. Her gaze was focused steadily on his large, bobbing arousal. 

God, he loved this--loved the look of pure, unshielded desire she gave him. He loved dearly revealing himself to her heated gaze. He was always pleased when she noticed. After all, she had seen him undress so often--partly or entirely--at Section's behest; he loved--to an almost-tormenting degree--knowing that she was noticing him at these times, was wanting more, . . . as he *always* did with her. 

His arousal was beating steadily. "Michael," she moaned. She focused on his eyes, licking her lips in invitation. 

He moaned. God, she was dangerous. "Ni-ki-ta," he warned. 

She shook her head. "I want you untamed, Michael," she purred. "I want your darkest fantasies of me." She smiled wickedly, tormenting him with her words. "I'll do anything you want and love every damn second of it." 

She licked her lips again--her eyes commanding, as she watched the look of demented passion in his eyes. "I'm yours." Her look grew a little hard in warning. "Don't you dare hold back on me." 

His arousal was bobbing insanely at her words; it, at least, was more than willing to take her up on her offer. Michael's eyes, however, held a slight terror--a terror of his own desires, of what he might do to her in his most carnal need. 

She shook her head beneath him, understanding his look but utterly unafraid. "I'm not scared of you, my love. I have no reason to be." His look still didn't change. "Now," she warned, "you can believe me, or you can lose this opportunity forever." 

Oh God, he wanted her, but there was so much to fear. He groaned. "What if I hurt you?" 

"You won't," she answered simply. 

"`Kita," he breathed, warning her not to take this lightly. 

She showed him his own truth. "Have you ever done anything sexually you didn't have full consent for, Michael? With me--with Simone—with your valentine targets--with anyone? Have you ever wanted to take anyone against their will?" 

"No," he groaned out from his soul, horrified by the very thought. 

She nodded. "Precisely." She shook her head. "It's not in you." 

She sighed, seeing that she still hadn't won. "I think we've both known people who could--who enjoyed it." They both shuddered slightly at events in their pasts they had never openly discussed. "But you aren't one of them." 

He knew, to an extent, that she was right, but he was so afraid--afraid that his new-found freedom with her might lead him to overstep the bounds he wanted to stay within. His eyes pleaded with her for understanding. 

She nodded her head. "I know, but you don't need to be afraid." He still wouldn't move. She worked on his last shreds of will. "Look at me, Michael--all of me." He did, giving in to temptation a bit. "Do you like what you see?" 

His breathing had escalated dangerously. "Yes." . . . God, yes. 

"I'm yours, Michael. I'll do anything you ask, because I *want* to." His eyes ran back to hers. "Let me." 

His eyes were so afraid but so aroused at the same time. "You're sure? You won't do anything you don't want?" 

"I'm sure, and I never have with you." She laughed a little, huskily. "I've never even come close to it." She smiled, seeing his will dissolve a bit; she looked down him and licked her lips again, reminding him of her earlier offer. He groaned, and she smiled back up at his eyes. "Let me, Michael." 

His eyes were wide, his desire for her throbbing through him. "You're sure?" 

"Mmmm," she moaned. She licked her lips deliberately again. "I'm positive." 

"Uhhhh," he moaned out, returning to his knees--her abandon having won him over. He propped himself on his hands above her. His eyes played over her face. "How do you want me?" 

Her feral grin appeared. "Ruthless, greedy, . . . desperate." Her smile widened, as she saw him beginning to tremble a little above her. "Command me, Michael. . . . Please." 

He let out a groan, and she leaned her head up to capture his lips--possessing his mouth. He groaned and tried to hold her in it, but she pulled back. "Do it, Michael." 

He let out a groan which rose from his soul and attacked her mouth with his own. She moaned below him and held him in it. 

When he pulled back finally, he sat up and ran his eyes up and down her body; his hands stroked along her sides lightly. "You'll do what I say?" he asked, beginning to take command, but wanting her final permission. 

"Yes, please," she begged, her body beginning to soften under his. 

Her willing submission to him brought out his every carnal desire. He leaned back over her. "You want to see my fantasies?" 

Her eyes widened. "Yes!" 

He lay himself on top of her and ran a hand over her face. "There aren't enough time for them all." She trembled a little in desire under him, and the last of his attempts at denial disappeared; his eyes grew dark. "So let's start with the darkest." 

************ 

Her eyes widened further; she was beginning to pant. "Yes, please," she moaned. 

He smiled at her and ran his hands up her sides, flicking his thumbs at her nipples, as he went past--lifting her robe up above her head, her arms still caught in it. She was moaning with anticipation, thinking happily back to the first morning of their sojourn. "Want to try it again?" he teased. "Yes!" she moaned. 

He smiled ferally at her and knotted her hands together in the robe. This time, though--instead of nailing it to the floor, he simply placed her hands behind her head. 

She was groaning, her breathing unsteady. Her eyes were focused on him in wild desire. "Like it?" he asked knowingly. 

"Yes," she moaned. 

He gave her a feral grin and ran his hands along her body. "This is always one of my dark fantasies," he smiled. "I love that you give yourself up to me--that you enjoy it." 

"Yesssss," she groaned. 

He leaned down to give her a soft, erotic kiss, and she groaned. He leaned back from it. "You made an offer earlier--still want to keep it?" 

Her eyes traveled down him, as he sat up, and she groaned loudly, licking her lips. There wasn't a day that went by that she didn't want to taste him--that she didn't want him inside her in every way there was. "Yes, oh yes. . . . Please." Her eyes were still focused on his hard length. She licked her lips again in invitation and looked up at him. 

His smile grew broader. "Good." She seemed to melt in submission under him, her mouth still open in desire. 

He never allowed himself to fantasize about what he was asking for now, but sometimes--in his dreams--his subconscious desires betrayed him. And, dear God, he did love the erotic torment she could create in him with her incredibly sweet, talented mouth. 

Of course, he had already trapped her hands--her usual co-conspirators--but that didn't really matter. He didn't want completion right now--there were other parts of her he was saving for that--just arousal. 

He began prowling up her body, until his hips were level with her face--his knees on either side of her head; he had made sure that her hair was well out of his way, needing to be certain that he caused her no pain. His intense arousal was just at her lips. 

"Michael, yes," she moaned before she leaned her head up enough to capture him in her mouth. "Mmmmm," she moaned. God, she had been waiting for this. 

He was trembling above her. Her mouth felt *so* good; she took him in just the way he needed. 

He groaned out, eyes closed, and was driven--by her happy moans--to start stroking softly--shallowly--in and out of her mouth . . . . It wasn't *quite* as good as being buried inside her depths, but God it was close. 

"Mmmmmm," she moaned again. She loved this--loved the taste of him, loved her ability to arouse him. 

His pace quickened on her a bit. God, she felt so good. She closed around him in just the way he dreamed of--the tip of her tongue running back and forth along the vein on the back. 

He began moaning, as she sucked him harder--her tight rhythm becoming more intense. He could feel the results of her sweet torment all along his shaft. . . . God, even without her hands' help--even when he was only half inside her, she could still have fulfilled him, if he had let her. 

Her moans of pleasure and need, though, were making him fierce. . . . If he didn't enter her soon, he would go insane. 

He pulled out of her, to her whimper of disappointment. "Michael," she moaned. 

He leaned down to kiss her deeply, as he moved himself down her, preparing to enter her. When he broke away from the kiss, he reminded her, "Don't argue with me, `Kita. I'm in control." 

She melted beneath him again--feeling his incredible, warm, beautifully-defined body spread itself on top of hers. God, she loved to feel the weight of his body on hers--his wonderful hard shaft throbbing against her. She spread her legs further to welcome him. "Yes, Michael." 

He smiled down at her; her willing--happy submission made him *wild*. He loved how the softness of her body molded themselves to his hard planes. His shaft was beating furiously in its need for her. 

He licked his lips, already tormented--taunting her. "You want me?" 

"Yessss," she moaned, trying to move her hips toward him to take him into her. 

"Uh-uh." He shook his head. "I lead." He took her and positioned himself at her entrance. "You follow." He began to push himself into her. 

Her eyes were wide with desire. "Yesssss!" she moaned. "Yes, God . . . more." He was *so* perfect when he filled her; she felt like she lived for just this moment. 

He watched her look, as he sunk himself into her smooth, tight depths continuously--inch by large, throbbing inch. When he was about to stop for a second, she moaned, "No. No mercy. . . . Please." 

Oh God. She made him *insane*. He gave up on his fears and did as she asked, entering her completely in one long, slow, deep thrust--letting out a groan, as he hit her core. 

"Ohhhhhh," she moaned. God, he felt good. No one else could ever fill her like this, could stretch her walls tight--making them desperate to be remolded to another's exact, generous contours; no one else could ever make her feel this way. 

He could read her desire and pleasure in her eyes. He smiled at and then ground himself further into her. 

She screamed throatily, her eyes wide and devoted. "Yes! Michael, please," she begged. 

"Mmmmmm," he moaned. Her desire filled his heart and soul. His blood was on fire with his need for her. He felt her adjust to him, and he began stroking her. . . . God, he loved this--loved riding her. 

"Ohhhh," she moaned. Every stroke ran through her--connected her to him. Her need for him boiled within her soul. "More, Michael," she begged. 

He growled deeply. There would never be enough of her for him; he could *never* stop wanting her. Every inch of his body was burning in his fierce need. 

This wasn't enough. For his desires right now his mattress just didn't provide enough resistance. He growled again and held her up to kiss her deeply, roughly. She moaned through it--to his responding groan. 

He started to carry her, holding her tightly--propped on his length--the short space over to the floor, dragging over a pillow to lie under the knotted hands beneath her head. Not even in his darkest fantasies, after all, did he want her discomfort--her complete submission to his dominating will, yes; her discomfort, no. 

Her eyes were wide--showing incredible, loving need, as he broke from the kiss to look at her. He lay her down beneath him--her head on the pillow, her hands still caught in the robe--and took hold of her hips, leaving them resting on the floor. He then began pumping himself in deep, rough strokes into her, the only resistance beneath her own soft curves. 

She moaned out at this. "Mmmm, oh God, yes . . . Michael!" He felt so damn good--his shaft's head buried deep within her depths, spreading a glowing, spiraling warmth inside her. Her fierce need was coiling even more tightly within her. "More, more, Michael," she begged. 

He leaned over to her face, his hands on her shoulders--holding her down deep on his shaft. His hips pushed his thickened length deep inside her, as he growled--his thrusts rough and grinding. 

"You like that?" his eyes burned at her. God, he loved it when she said "yes." He loved pleasing her. He wanted to give her a release so maddeningly cataclysmic that she felt like she was coming apart. 

Her hips were thrusting back at him insanely--desperate for more. It was incredible--her whole body was singing with it, but it just wasn't enough yet. She was *so* hungry for him; she felt her need spiraling madly upwards with every deep stroke. "More!" she pleaded. 

He growled again, deciding to change their positions; he wanted to see her hunger for him in all its glory. First, though, he untangled her hands. "Hold on to my shoulders," he ordered. 

She did. He held on to her back and then rolled them both over; she growled, loving the sensation, and adjusted the pillow briefly so that it lay under his head. 

He stroked up at her with cruel force. "Ride me rough," he ordered. He licked his lips, watching her. "Please yourself." 

She groaned ferally and then started a brutal rhythm on him--matched at every stroke by the guidance of his hands on her hips. She rode his huge shaft until it was nearly completely in and out of her with each stroke; it was only his hands' guidance, in fact, which kept her from getting a bit too excited in her thrusts and losing him completely. 

God, this turned her on. She leaned her head back, moaning in sheer, animal need. 

The feeling of it was amazing; every return journey onto him, she was hit deep by his large tip--stroking repeatedly against an incredibly-sensitized spot inside her. "Michael . . . yes," she moaned, riding him harder. 

He started moving her even faster over himself. God, he loved this. He loved watching her please herself with him--loved her hunger for him, her utter abandonment, as she rode him--her tight, slick depths stroking completely over his perilously-aroused length each time. 

"Moooooorrre," she groaned. He swelled further inside of her and she let out a groaning, "uhhhhh." 

She leaned over, still holding on to his shoulders, her head hanging down, her rhythm on him tighter--faster. He growled deeply and used her hips as handles to slam her down onto him--desperate to feel her release. . . . Nothing turned him on more than stroking her through one. 

She opened her eyes to look at him. Her breathing was coming in fast little pants; every tiny fragment of her depths was alive with her need. She needed him to ravish her--needed her animal mate back; she used her crude words to goad him into even rougher action. "You feel good when you fuck me, Michael." She panted and licked her lips at him. "Do it again--hard." 

God, he loved it when she was needy. He growled at her words and began slamming her more roughly onto his shaft, his hips meeting every deep stroke within her--grinding perilously against a tender, needy inner spot with every giant thrust. She moaned loudly, and he became even more brutal. 

"Ahhh, ahhhh," she moaned. Oh God, he felt so good. His shaft felt *huge* within her, seemed to fill her completely--to stroke into her soul. 

God, they were both so close. His whole body was alive in aching need--was braced for their approaching climax. He watched her trembling above him; she was moaning loudly--was barely capable of coherent thought, . . . but neither of them, still, was quite there. 

Suddenly, he felt the light in her calling desperately to him, and he realized why. He sat up to start the chain reaction of their union by suckling roughly on the nipple near her heart. 

She let out a short, "Ah!"--trembling slightly. He slid his teeth over her--as he pulled back, and she opened her eyes to look at him. 

They were caught in each other's gaze for a quarter of a second. His hands came up to frame her face, as he felt their souls beginning to entwine tightly. Then their lips descended on one another's desperately, and the sensual and emotional explosions began. 

They were both coming at exactly the same time--were thrusting needily into each other. Their climaxes soared through them--through one another--with the sort of precision that most people only dream of. 

His warmth entered her deeply, just as her walls closed in to tremble tightly around him. They were both shaking, were holding onto one another insanely. Their kiss was feral and deep; they were both moaning through it--were trying to taste the absolute depths of each other's souls in it. 

At exactly the same moment, too, they both pulled back from it to look at each other once again, their eyes wide and needy--their souls once more binding them tightly together. Their hips rocked together in unspoken, perfectly-synchronized time, as they rode out the impact of their intense release. 

Their eyes held onto each other's souls--combined them into one. They let out the same breath at the same instant and gave one last, shuddering thrust against one another--finishing out the final seconds of their release together. Then, they both collapsed into each other's arms--holding the key to their souls fiercely close. 

The emotional and sensual force of it was almost too intense; they both cried against one another. They seemed unable to stop. Their tears each flowed down the other's neck, as they shuddered gently against each other--their souls whole again. . . . They both felt enveloped in light. 

It was several minutes later that they let out shaky sighs and looked back at one another. Michael put his hand on her cheek, his thumb stroking away the tears. "My beautiful love," he sighed, "my beautiful wife." 

She closed her eyes. "Michael," she whispered, turning her head to kiss his palm. "Hold me, my sweet husband." 

He wrapped his arms around her more tightly, and they both seemed to decide simultaneously that a few hours' rest wouldn't do them any harm. They somehow managed, therefore, to maneuver their way onto the mattress again without disuniting. 

He pulled the covers up over them and held her close, sighing. "I should have thought of that sooner," he said quietly of their final, cataclysmic embrace. 

She laughed slightly and looked up at him briefly. "We both should have," she whispered, kissing his chest before resettling herself. 

He nodded and kissed her head. "Yes." . . . Hers was such a simple statement, but it was so true, on so many levels; they should have allowed themselves to mingle their souls together as one *so* long ago. 

He kissed her temple again and sighed slightly. He loved her so much--wanted to live every second of their lives together in this sort of aroused peace. . . . Nothing which happened to them could ever distance her from his heart. 

"Michael," she sighed. The threads of love which connected their souls still throbbed between them, still held them tightly together. . . . She knew that--no matter what cruelty their future might hold--he would always be part of her. 

They held each other tightly, as they drifted off to sleep. At least--whatever their future--they were together for now. After all, what greater miracle could anyone ask for than love and peace? For the two of them, especially, either one was a beautiful act of God--one which they had no desire to question. 

************* 

It was definitely, so far, turning into a *very* good day. It was the second time during it that they had woken up holding each other. . . . That didn't make it any less special for either of them, though; the feeling of being in one another's arms was still absolute bliss. 

Nikita was lying with her head on Michael's shoulder, was lovingly examining his face. She knew--from his breathing--that he was awake, but he had yet to open his eyes. . . . She suspected that he was enjoying her perusal. 

She smiled. . . . He was so beautiful. He had such a look of peace on his face; his features were so calm and settled, were completely absent of tension and strain. . . . It was a *definite* change from how he usually appeared. 

She sighed happily, propping herself up on her elbow, and ran her hand lightly over his chest. She thought she saw a slight quirk at the corner of his mouth, but he was trying hard to hide it. 

She smiled radiantly down on him and let out a throaty laugh. . . . God, she adored him. She was truly beginning to feel that she was his wife, lately--was beginning to understand that he had joyously given her free access to his body . . . and his soul. 

Her hand ran over to tweak at his nipple lightly--the small point having stiffened at the soft touch of her hand on his skin; she heard him try to repress an aroused groan. She gave a slightly louder, pleased laugh in response and leaned down to nip at the soft, bristled flesh just under his jaw. His groan grew louder--his mouth quirking a bit more, as she sat back up to look at him; she laughed to herself again and leaned over to lick at his smile--tasting his pleasure. 

A second later, she found herself pleasantly trapped by his hand in her hair--being held to him in a deep, warm, soft kiss. She moaned in it. 

He still hadn't opened his eyes; he didn't need to. He responded to the beauty of her soul by instinct. 

The kiss continued for several minutes, as they both happily explored the soft depths of the other's mouth. His moan joined hers, and the kiss grew slightly more intense for several seconds, before she pulled back with a moan. 

He looked up at her finally and smiled. "Good . . .," he looked over to the sunlight coming in the window, judging its slant, before looking back at her, "afternoon." 

She smiled brightly down at him--a smile that warmed even the darkest corners of his soul. She leaned down to nip over his lips once more before pulling back; he moaned. "Good afternoon." Her hand still roamed his chest. "How long have you been awake?" 

His thumb stroked over her cheek. "About as long as you." 

Her smile grew deeper. "Going to let me stare at you all day?" 

He nodded. "If you wanted to?" He smiled, almost contentedly, again. "Happily." 

Her hand trailed down over his abdomen and then back up. "You like to be admired by beautiful women?" 

He still smiled, but his eyes were serious. "Only one." 

She leaned down to kiss him deeply again for a few seconds, as he held her to him. Her teeth ran over his lower lip, as she pulled back. 

"Do you like to watch me?" he asked. 

Her look was semi-serious. "You know I do." 

His face grew more somber than she expected; his question was sincere--curious. "Why?" 

She shook her head at him. "Michael, haven't I taught you yet how beautiful you are to me?" Her hand ran up to his neck, her thumb stroking his jaw line. "Don't you know yet how much I love you?" 

His hand cupped her face. He nodded, but it was obviously knowledge that was difficult for him--that he was having trouble taking in. "Yes." He sighed. "But I still don't know why." He wasn't looking for compliments or forgiveness; he was just a little confused. 

She closed her eyes for a second, shaking her head; she knew, of course, why it was hard for him to accept this knowledge--knew she couldn't overturn years of conditioning in just a few days, but she needed him so desperately to understand. She repositioned herself--lying on top of him to face him more closely, both her hands stroking over his cheeks; she felt his arousal beating back into life inside her just at the increased contact. 

His eyes were wide, as they watched her; he was completely focused on her words. "I've been in love with you for far longer than I've let myself admit, Michael." She kissed his lips lightly before pulling back, regaining her softly determined focus on him. "I've spent so many days, so many hours thinking about you, wondering about you," her hand traced over his face--her eyes focused on its path, "pondering your beauty." 

She looked back at his eyes, continuing to try to explain. "I've felt connected to you for as long as I can remember." She smiled a little. "Even before we met," she shook her head, "it's like I knew we would--like I knew that you were waiting for me." She kissed him lightly again. "Although, admittedly, I never realized that we would meet the way we did." Her look was a little sad. 

His eyes were full of devotion to her, but his look was still confused. He stroked a hand over her cheek--watching its trail. "Why don't you hate me, `Kita?" he wondered sadly, refocusing on her eyes. 

"Michael," she whispered. Her hands ran through his soft hair. She wanted to lie, in a way--if only to make her point to him about his incredible value to her, but she couldn't degrade both of their souls in such a way. 

She sighed, her eyes focusing deeply and sadly on his. "I do," she said softly. She shook her head. "Part of me always will." 

He nodded, seeming to understand this desire completely, but she rolled her eyes slightly and shook her head again before refocusing on him. "No, Michael. You know that's not all of it." She leaned in to kiss his temple before looking back at him. "You said it yourself--you live your life split in two. Well, one of those people I adore with everything in me." Her eyes were focused deeply and lovingly on his, and she saw the devotion shining there; her look saddened, though. "And one I despise from the depths of my soul." 

He closed his eyes in pain--but with no surprise. He pulled her head down toward him to kiss her temple, and she resettled herself on his chest. 

His eyes opened, as he rubbed his chin lightly over her hair. "You're my life, Nikita." His hand ran over her cheek. "I wish to God I could take away all the pain I've given you." 

She shook her head against him and then pressed her lips in to kiss his chest before resettling herself. His eyes closed at the sensation--at the love she seemed to send straight into his heart with her soft touch. 

She wanted to just drop the topic, in a way; it was *so* painful for them both, after all. But she also realized that anything she wanted to tell him would have to happen today. . . . They might never get another chance. 

She sighed against him, trying to prepare herself to go into more of the torment that lay between them. He kissed the top of her head. "Go on, Nikita," he encouraged her softly. 

She closed her eyes, trying to hold in her pain before refocusing tearily; she tried to keep her voice under control. "I've spent the better part of five years--almost *all* of the first three--wondering if I was just fooling myself." She shook her head slightly and swallowed. "I spent so many nights berating myself for even imagining that you would want me--that you would want someone as stupid, ugly, and useless as me." 

Her words were a reflection of the self-image her painful childhood had so deeply instilled--the one his constant rejections had built upon. . . . He couldn't take them, though; they tore through his soul like a scalding, demonic fire. 

He closed his eyes, tears escaping him, to utter a soul-deep, agonized, "Nooooooo." He held her to him fiercely, rocking them both, as his breathing grew erratic; he was throbbing strongly inside her again--his body sharing his soul's need to express to her just how deeply he loved and needed her. 

Her tears ran down his chest. She hated that she had forced her pain onto him, but she knew that it had been right not to just pretend--not to just hide it. . . . Their time together was too precious to mar it with polite lies. 

She felt him beating strongly inside her. As much as part of her wanted to reconnect with him sensually, she knew that wasn't the answer to her fears and pain, at the moment. She put her hand on his hip and tried to lift herself from him. 

He stopped her softly, as she looked up at him. His eyes were tearful. He took her hand in his. "Please," he begged. "I'm not asking for anything. Just let me stay in you--let me stay connected to you." 

Her hand stroked over his face. "Michael," she whispered. There were tears on her cheeks, as well. 

"Please," he said softly again. His eyes made a solemn promise to her. 

She nodded slightly, trusting him enough to know that he meant what he said. Any other man wouldn't be able to withstand the temptation of it, but Michael--she knew--was different. He would keep his word, even if he had a heart attack from the strain of withholding his desires. 

He rolled them to the side, so that he could pull slightly out of her--so that neither of their bodies was applying pressure to keep him in her deeply. . . . As much as he knew, in a way, that it was a definite distraction for them, he also understood that they both needed the link--needed the symbolic connection to each other. 

His hand stroked over her cheek, as they lay facing one another. Neither of them had stopped crying softly; his thumb gently rubbed away a tear. 

He took a shaky breath, before he started to speak. "I'm so sorry, `Kita--for everything . . . so sorry I've hurt you." He shook his head to ask to be able to continue, as she opened her mouth to speak--his thumb still wiping away her tears. "I hate that I've made you feel unloved, undesired." He swallowed heavily. "I hate that all the times I just wanted to keep you alive I knowingly put you in such torment." 

He shook his head slightly again, trying--unsuccessfully--to swallow back his tears. "I wish to God I could take it all back." He sighed. "I wish there were some way for me to show you just how central you are to my life . . . to my soul." 

Her eyes were in torment but were utterly devoted to him. He kissed very lightly at her lips before pulling back; his voice was very soft, as he tried to explain all of the truths of his love for her. "There is nothing alive in me without you--I would have no reason for life if you were gone." He was stroking her face lightly. "My soul sighs in pleasure every time you touch me; my body awakens every time I think of you." His thumb ran down her face. "There hasn't been a single time since I met you that I didn't both start and finish the day with thoughts of you." 

She let him continue, as she swallowed back tears; his eyes were trying to show her the complete truth of his words. "I would have let myself die so long ago, if it weren't for you, would have fought for my own death without you." 

He placed his hand firmly on her cheek, his eyes connecting deeply with hers--pleading with her to understand. "My whole soul hangs on your every breath. Without you, there is nothing pure, nothing noble, nothing desirable, and nothing beautiful in me; it's only in connecting with you that I can understand anything holy." 

His eyes were burning with his need to have her believe. "The only times I feel that I could ever try to comprehend God are when I'm with you." He swallowed heavily. "It rips brutally at me that I've spent even a second of the time since we've met giving you any other impression." 

His eyes grew incredibly serious; his body throbbed within hers with his need for her to understand. "And it's all of this that lets me know just how little beauty I have--inside or out." He shook his head. "No one with anything like spiritual purity could hurt you in all the ways I have." 

She closed her eyes, her tears rolling down her cheeks, as he stroked them away. She loved him so much--his words had touched her so deeply, but she needed to ask him just one more question--needed to take advantage of this last real day with him to understand one more thing; it was a question she had never truly known the answer to--one she wasn't even entirely sure she wanted to. 

She refocused on him. Her hand went to his cheek, rubbing away his tears, as well. "Michael . . ." She took a deep breath to brace herself, "after my very first mission," she swallowed, remembering, "when you set me up to be ambushed," she took another deep breath, "would you have left me, if I hadn't made it out in time? Would you have stranded me there to die?" 

His arousal beat wildly inside of her; he closed his eyes and put his hand on her hip to pull himself out of her. . . . He wasn't worthy of the connection. 

She closed her eyes, feeling the pain of the spiritual separation. She refocused on him, wondering if that were his answer. 

He looked back at her; his hand ran lightly through her hair. He shook his head slightly. "I don't know, `Kita." He sighed deeply. "I wish I could say I would have returned for you--would have brought you out." His eyes were tormented. "I thought about it--was trying to think of an excuse for Operations, if I decided to--was wondering whether you were even still alive, whether I would go back in simply to find you dead." More tears streamed from his eyes. "I want to tell you that I would have saved you," his voice was very quiet, "but I don't know." 

She nodded. It was more of a response to her question than she had really expected; she knew she was asking the unanswerable. 

She knew, too, that Michael's real attempt to save her wouldn't have come that night but had instead truly happened during her two years of training. He had worked her; had run her through endless sims. And tests; had inspired, praised, or bullied her, all for the ends of helping her survive. In some ways, she supposed, the fact that he had abandoned her there had truly been a statement of his confidence in her abilities--if an *utterly* perverse, Section one. 

He closed his eyes, unable to stand the guilt of looking at her. She swallowed slightly and continued with her thoughts. It wasn't that she forgave him for his sins; she still couldn't. But she knew that this was an issue they couldn't resolve--was simply part of the pain that would lie between them until their deaths, that might even follow them on to other lifetimes. It couldn't be worked out simply. 

She knew, too, that neither of them were asking for it to be. They only had one day, after all; some things just couldn't be made right in that time. 

None of this, though--perhaps paradoxically, affected her love for him; it was simply another painful event of their shared past--was another reason why their relationship would never be easy. 

They had gone as far as they could with this discussion. She knew it was best to leave it there. 

She leaned forward to kiss him lightly, to his gasping sigh--his eyes closing further. She leaned back from it to run her thumb over his cheek and gave him a half-smile, as he refocused on her with incredible love. "Maybe we should talk about what happens when we go back tomorrow." 

His eyes held such love for her. He knew she--wisely--hadn't forgiven him anything, but she also--he could see in her eyes--still loved him, still cared. . . . He could *never* understand it, but nothing would ever make him more grateful. 

He knew, too, that she was right to bring up the painful subject of their imminent return; they couldn't avoid it forever, after all. And, anyway, they were already discussing tormenting things. . . . Maybe if they could go ahead and eliminate the need to discuss their future now, too, they could spend the rest of their afternoon and night simply appreciating that they were still together. 

************ 

He nodded at her. "Good idea." He leaned in to kiss her softly for a minute before pulling back. "But let's go discuss it over lunch. You . . . we," he amended, knowing that she hated it when he forgot his own needs, "could use it." 

She smiled at him and leaned in to kiss him deeply for several seconds. He breathed a moan against her lips. 

She pulled back to look at him, a soft smile on hers. "Good idea," she echoed. 

They both started to rise finally, carefully pulling themselves to their feet. Their overused muscles protested a bit, but they were both determined to worry about them tomorrow; what was the point of all their training for endurance, after all, if they couldn't use it to their advantage at least once? 

He kissed her softly before looking back at her with a smile. Her hand came down to stroke very lightly over his incredibly-aroused length. "What about this, Michael?" 

He closed his eyes and grabbed her hand quickly, taking a sharp intake of breath at her touch. "Lunch . . . lunch . . .lunch," he tried to remind himself, as he removed her from him. 

He refocused on her and brought her palm up to his lips, giving it a warm kiss, as he focused deeply on her eyes. "It's not fatal," he smiled at her. She laughed slightly back at him, and he kissed her palm once more before letting it go. 

"Besides," he leaned down to retrieve the robe she had been wearing; he came back up to face her again. "This is the state you always have me in." He held her robe up for her, and she leaned in to kiss him lightly before turning to slip it on. 

He wrapped it around her, tying the belt to secure it--his arms around her to hold her back to him. He kissed the side of her face. "If I hadn't learned to accept it by now, I'd have been canceled a long time ago." 

She laughed slightly and stroked along his arms, as they held her. "Mmm," she moaned at the sensation of being so close to him, "at least my arousal isn't quite as potentially embarrassing." He chuckled slightly near her ear and kissed her cheek once more; he rubbed himself against her teasingly once--to her slight groan--and then kissed the side of her face a final time before turning to retrieve his pants. 

She pulled her hair from the robe and let it fall down her back before turning to watch him, as he partially dressed--her eyes playing over his arousal. He growled quietly. "Lunch," he reminded her, covering himself once more. As much as he wanted to be deep inside her, he knew they needed food. 

She smiled and pointed toward the kitchen. "After you." 

He growled slightly again, suspecting--correctly--that she just wanted to get a view of him from behind. He watched her with heated eyes, as he passed by her on his way to the kitchen. "Vixen," he muttered under his breath, once she was following him; he heard her low chuckle in response. 

He shook his head slightly. . . . God, he loved her. A few minutes ago they had both been in racking emotional pain. Now, even though they were about to discuss something even more potentially tormenting, she had lightened their mood completely--had allowed them to return to the pleasant, teasing atmosphere they had enjoyed so often over the past several days. . . . He could never treasure another woman--could never treasure any other person--as he treasured her. 

He went about starting to make a slightly larger lunch than usual for them. They had, after all, been expending a *lot* of energy since they had last eaten, and--given the way their day was progressing--it was uncertain whether they would eat again before tomorrow. 

He hated that this would be one of the last times he could enjoy serving her like this--hated knowing that their time together was ending, but--instead of mourning--he was still determined to allow himself to soak in every tiny second of the rest of their day together. He knew that even the pain of their discussions of past torments would be his treasured memories; he didn't want to forget a single thing. 

Nikita occupied herself for a few minutes by finding another large blanket to use as their table and setting it out. She had learned, in the last few days, that Michael was enjoying making their meals alone--was enjoying being able to create them for her. She knew, therefore, to simply allow him to enjoy himself in his task. . . . It would be a memory both of them would savor. 

She sat and watched him silently, as he prepared their meal. She was storing away every tiny nuance to treasure in the future. 

He smiled, feeling her eyes on him. He was loving every second of this silent connection they were sharing; every one was being tucked away in vivid detail for his future, loving reference. 

Their mood of quiet contentment changed slightly, however, once he brought over their meal--once they were face-to-face again. Their short reprieve from their painful discussion of what lay ahead had been put off as long as they could; they now had to force themselves to confront it. 

Nikita was staring down at her plate, as she ate quietly; she felt like she should start. "This can't continue once we're back, can it?" She looked up at him. 

He closed his eyes briefly to hold off his pain. He was forcing himself to eat; the subject, though, was robbing him of any real appetite. He refocused on her. "No." 

She nodded, looking back down briefly. "Will anything really change between us, Michael?" She was shaking her head slightly, before she refocused on him. 

He blinked back tears. "I don't know," he said honestly. 

She sighed deeply. "What would it take to get them to allow us to be together, when we're not needed?" Her eyes were intelligent and thoughtful. She remembered that she should be eating and continued with her meal, while she waited for his answer. 

His look was *very* serious. "More than either of us wants you to have to give." 

She nodded, understanding. "Valentine ops." 

He nodded in response. "At a minimum." 

She rolled her eyes, as she chewed her food. . . . She didn't want to know what the maximum was. She stared down at her plate. 

He sighed. He knew she didn't need to be told what he was about to, but he needed to voice it anyway. "I don't know what's going to happen to us, `Kita. They've let us be together for a week, but they won't let it continue from there." His voice got softer. "It would make us too strong." 

She refocused on him deeply--surprise showing in her gaze. "Too strong?" she repeated. She couldn't remember him ever referring to the two of them together as being "strong." If anything, he had always treated her as his weakness. 

He understood her thoughts but stuck by his evaluation. "Yes." 

She smiled at him slightly. This was quite a breakthrough for him. . . . She wondered how long it would last. 

He blinked down at the floor, not really willing to face the tremendous change he had made in himself--the change she had wrought. It was too dangerous to think about it, once they returned. 

She continued to smile at him, until she was struck with a deeply-unpleasant thought. "Michael . . . do you think they'll expect something in return for what we've had the last week?" 

He nodded sadly and refocused on her. "Possibly." Her eyes were frightened, but she said nothing. "We'll deal with it, if it comes," he assured her. 

"How?" Her eyes were curious. 

"We'll find a way." 

She shook her head a little. "But if they ask me to do something I can't . . ." They both knew she was talking about valentine ops. 

He broke her off. "Come to me." He nodded, his eyes focusing on her seriously. "We'll find a way around it." He was utterly resolved in this; he would *not* willingly allow her to prostitute herself. If *he* had to, so be it; his body was used to becoming numb, when necessary. . . . But they were *never* touching his Nikita . . . his wife. 

She saw all this in his eyes and relaxed a little. She was willing to do a great deal for him, but she knew--as did he--that to prostitute herself would kill her. She sighed, smiling slightly and went on with their discussion. "So what do we do?" 

"The usual--perform as efficiently as possible and hope they don't ask us for anything we can't give them." His eyes were calmly resolved. 

She nodded, knowing he was right. "And if they do--I come to you?" 

His eyes were *very* serious. "Yes." She nodded again. 

He paused, taking a deep breath before speaking once more. "There's only one difference in how we should act in the future." 

She looked curious. "Which is?" 

"We need to try to trust each other--to be open," he sighed, "*if* it's possible." 

Her eyes reflected such deep love for him; she was a little stunned by his announcement. She nodded, and he gave a slight smile, their agreement sealed. 

They ate the rest of their lunch quietly, simply watching each other--just enjoying their chance to be together. Nikita was a little amazed, really, at how easily they had taken care of the problems of their return--in theory, at least. She had expected far more pain and torment over the whole conundrum, but it had really been handled rather simply. She smiled to herself, as she ate; she was watching Michael, whose eyes were on her, as well. . . . Maybe, just maybe, the relationship between them was changing for the better. 

He watched her, as she finished her meal. . . . She was *so* beautiful. While he still wondered what she saw in him, he loved that they now had a plan about how to deal with their return--about how to handle their future. 

He hated, of course, that they couldn't continue to be together intimately, after tonight, though. He wished fervently that it were possible for them to be, but he knew he shouldn't ask for any more miracles beyond her love. . . . At some point, after all, God was bound to get stingy. 

They continued to simply watch each other for some time after they had finished their meal. The food was replenishing their energies, which had been so taxed by their intense lovemaking. 

They were both thinking the same thing about this day, really: this was the way it should be--a lifetime together of honesty, of a constant, wonderful cycle of sleeping, eating, and lovemaking. They both sighed. What could ever be more beautiful than that? 

Eventually, Michael decided to clear away their plates, leaving Nikita to sit and watch him. He had no complaints that she wasn't pitching in; he was just enjoying the fact that she was allowing him to serve her. . . . It was a joy which would, after all, be too short-lived. 

Nikita noticed again, when Michael rose, that he was still intensely aroused. She smiled slightly to herself; their discussion of their future had distracted her, before. "Have you been like that all along?" 

His eyes shone heatedly at her, as he returned for another set of dishes. "Yes," he replied simply. He returned to the kitchen once more. 

She smiled deeply, a throaty laugh escaping her. "I could do something about it," she offered. 

His eyes glowed at her, as he emerged from the kitchen--remembering vividly and lovingly how she had handled such a situation before; he leaned against the doorway to the kitchen area. "I'm sure we *both* will." She smiled back at him wickedly. 

His eyes traced a fire over her, as he watched her from his position across the room. "What is it?" she asked seductively. 

"Why do you always sit like that?" he asked. She was in another gracelessly beautiful pose, her robe open to reveal her treasures. 

She looked down at and then moved to cover herself more carefully. She hadn't realized she had been doing it before. "Sorry." 

"Don't," he stopped her from shifting her position too much. "It wasn't a complaint," his eyes were bright, "only a question." 

She didn't look like she had an answer. "You don't even realize it, half the time, do you?" he continued, smiling warmly. She gave him a look which said she obviously didn't. His smile grew both more serious and more seductive. "You don't even know how incredibly arousing you are." He shook his head. "Even unconsciously, you can't help but entice." 

Her eyes were devilish. She moved her leg back to its first position, allowing him his original view; she noticed that his arousal seemed to be beating more furiously against its confinement, and she smiled wickedly up at his eyes. "What about when I do it consciously?" 

His smile grew slightly feral. He broke her gaze to return to the kitchen for a second before coming back to her. He lowered himself down to her and untied her robe with one hand, which then snuck under it to run heatedly over her flesh. He began to lower her willingly to the floor, beneath him. 

He put something down on the blanket beside her. She wasn't sure what it was; she was caught in his commanding gaze. His hands lifted the robe up, as he leaned her back--beginning to come to rest on top of her. "That," he answered her finally--his hands trapping hers in the robe beneath her head, to her incredibly-escalated breathing, "should be punished." 

*********** 

She let out a low moan, as his hands began to stroke the length of her body; one of them, she noticed, was unnaturally cold. She licked her lips. She was already bound beneath him. She couldn't wait to see where this was leading. "And what's your instrument of torture, Michael?" she taunted. 

He thrust his hips against hers, as he leaned over her further. She moaned. "I have my ways," he smiled. 

"God, don't you," she thought to herself. 

"Mmm," she said aloud, her legs spreading unconsciously. She loved their games, *loved* to torment him; she wanted to start a new one with him now. "I've been *very* bad," she licked over his lips--which he had leaned close to hers, "my husband." A growl rose from his chest. "I think I need to feel the limits of your . . . instrument." 

His growl got louder. God, he *loved* it when she teased him--loved that she had accepted their spiritual union and was now happily enjoying their honeymoon games. 

His eyes glowed at her ferally. "Very well, my wife." He leaned in to capture her lips completely--commanding her in their kiss. His hips taunted her by rubbing his throbbing arousal against her. He broke the kiss for a second. "Accept your punishment." He kissed her deeply once again. 

Nikita let out a low moan which broke her from the kiss, when she felt Michael's hand descend lightly upon her neck with a large piece of ice. "Ohhhh," she groaned. 

His eyes glowed at her. "Is this the torture you wanted?" 

She was moaning too heavily to answer. The ice trailed an indescribable arousal straight into her flesh. As his hand traced it lovingly--slowly along the length of her neck, the ice melted--running trails of icy water down to her back. 

The contrast with her heated skin was so stark that she was surprised that there was no steam; her mouth was open, as she cried out at the sensation. She was shuddering, but she wanted much, much more. "Yes," she moaned. 

She looked back up at him to see the feral pleasure in his eyes at her reaction. He had felt her nipples harden to aching points; her hips thrust at him, begging him to tease her further. 

He loved this. He switched the ice off in his hands--partly to keep them from becoming too cold--and trailed it down the other side of her neck, as he leaned down to kiss her demandingly. 

She was whimpering through it, pleading for more. He pulled back from the kiss to trail his teeth across her bottom lip lightly--giving her one more possessive look before beginning to run his tongue down the line the ice had traced on the first side of her neck. 

She let out a loud moan. The heat of the tip of his knowledgeable tongue running down the line that the ice had left had tears coming to her eyes. 

The arousal was so intense that her body wasn't entirely certain how to process it; every sensation seemed to build on the next. Just when she thought she was getting used to one, another wonderful--entirely contradictory--one came right along behind it. 

He ran small bites along the line he had been tormenting, as she screamed. Her body was shuddering beneath him. She was trying to rub herself against him; every millimeter of her flesh was alive with the need to be touched by him. She had *never* felt more aroused before. 

He growled softly, as he changed sides on her neck. He *loved* that she was responding so strongly to him, loved that he could please her so. Before he consummated their love again this afternoon, he wanted her to be completely mindless and aching in her need for him; he wanted to overwhelm every sense she had. . . . He wanted to redefine her knowledge of the term "lover" once again--wanted to teach her what it was like to have a husband who adored and worshiped you, who would do any and everything to please you. 

He was doing an excellent job of it so far, as well. Every stroke of his tongue on her neck made her quake with need. When he furthered his torment by running the ice lightly down her breastbone--his mouth still at her neck--she let out a screaming, "Ah-AHHHHHH!" as the ice melted lines of icy water around her aching breasts. 

He ran small nibbles down her neck, as she trembled beneath him. She tried to get out his name, but all she could manage of it was the "Miiiii." 

He moaned slightly and took advantage of her gasping mouth to kiss her deeply. She wept through the kiss before bucking against him--knocking him away from it, when he trailed the ice over to a straining nipple. 

He smiled down at her to see her wide, desperate eyes, her gasping mouth, and he leaned in to kiss her lightly once more before moving to run small, wet kisses down the line of her neck and then further down her breastbone. His hand traced the ice in circles around the tender bud before running it over the tip. 

She was crying fiercely now. Her flesh had never felt more alive. Every cell of her skin was aching to be touched; every one felt almost sentient--and in need of the intense, fierce devotion of a lover dedicated to it alone. 

The feelings were almost too much for her. She was gasping desperately. The ice at her nipple was making her ache to feel him suckle her strongly. Had her hands been free, she would have moved him herself. As it was, though, . . . 

Michael, however, recognized her need. He moved what little was left of the rapidly melting ice down one breast, into the valley between them, and then up the other--switching off his hands--to echo the torment the first had received. His mouth, meanwhile, enclosed her needy bud, suckling the icy-cold nipple back into aching, fiery, perilously-aroused life in his hot, wet mouth. 

Her head was back--her eyes closed, as she thrust her chest toward him, desperate for more. "Ahhhh--Ahhhhh--Ahhhhhh," she was moaning desperately, tears running from her eyes. 

The ice disappeared over her other nipple. The water from his ministrations had run down her sides and back, taunting her further. He ran his teeth very lightly over the nipple he was tormenting, while his fingers pinched the other aching little bud. 

She was whimpering dementedly under him. Her conscious mind had given up. Anything like logic or speech had gone far, far away. All she could do was feel--was experience. 

It was an experience, too, like no other. Michael--as he always did--understood her every need and desire. This time, though, he was taking her to places that her previous, far less experienced or talented, lovers simply could never have imagined. 

He ran his teeth up over that achingly aroused bud and ran his tongue in a line down one breast and up the other to begin his erotic torment anew. He knew that she was already beyond all rational thought, and he loved that he made her feel this needy. He wanted to constantly take her to new heights. He could be an extremely creative man, given the right inspiration. . . . And Nikita was the sort of inspiration most men only dreamed of. 

He lapped his tongue over his new plaything, as his hand pinched the deserted bud and rubbed his thumb over the tip. She was letting out small whimpers beneath him. He took her lightly in his teeth, and her whimpers threatened to go beyond the range of human hearing. 

Her hips were thrusting at him constantly; he could feel her wet warmth through the material of his pants. His shaft was beating furiously against its confinement--was desperate to reunite with her. 

As usual, his erotic tormenting of her was resulting in an, at least equal, torment for himself. Part of him wanted to just reveal himself immediately and sink his throbbing arousal deep into her--wanted to take her roughly and possessively, . . . but he wasn't wasting this chance to explore and arouse her. It was too precious to be given up lightly. 

He pinched her nipple once more with his hand and began to trail his fingers down her skin. His mouth released the bud it was tormenting and nipped at the first before going back to suckle the other one deeply. She let out a gasping moan, before her whimpers resumed. 

His hand traced down her body to play over her navel and abdomen. Her whimpers got louder. "Y-es," she managed--a feat of will. He traced it further down to play just over her nether bud and the golden hair that hid it. She tried to thrust her hips up to hit his hand, but he held it just out of reach when she tried. 

When her thrusts became simply small, convulsive ones, he parted the small curls and pressed a finger to her delicate flesh. Her hips bucked at him, and he began to stroke around the small bud in rough little circles. His teeth got slightly crueler at her breast. 

She let out a short scream and tried to push herself closer to his ministrations. He began suckling her roughly, his teeth scraping against her, while his finger stroked the circles more insistently on her nether bud. 

She was screaming out little "Ah-Ah-Ah"s with every move, her breathing ragged. Her hips were bucking against him desperately, her eyes closed. . . . She was so close to completion. 

He growled at her breast. He *loved* pleasing her. Nothing could make him more egotistical than this; it made him *wild* when he brought her joy. 

He wanted to bring her to her first climax of this particular experience. He loved being able to please her so often and in so many ways. 

He moved to finish her off by suckling strongly on her breast, while pinching her nether bud. Her hips were raised from the floor to press herself into his hand. He twisted her slightly with his hand while giving her a hint of teeth. 

She let out a screaming "AIIIIIII-AHHHHHHHH!" as she bucked under him, her body tossing helplessly. He growled against her, loving her pleasure; he tried to soak it into him through his skin--wanted to bathe in her beautiful, aroused emotions. 

God, he wanted her, but he had to taste her first. It had been too long--had been this morning. He ran his teeth over her breast, his tongue playing with the tip, and then stroked wet lines down her body, until his mouth was just above her depths. 

"Uhhh, uhhh," she was moaning. 

He looked up at her. "You wanted my torture, Nikita." She opened her desperately needy eyes to look at him. He licked his lips. "This is the next step." 

Her eyes were wide, as she stared at him with an insane depth of desire. He grinned ferally in return, loving the fact that his words aroused her as much as his body did; he was becoming even more insane for her. 

He held her depths open with his fingers and ran his tongue just around her entrance. "Ah!" she moaned, her eyes wide. 

He licked over her bud once and looked back up at her. "I have many instruments of torture, my dear wife." He smiled and lowered his head to run his tongue just a bit further into her. "Mmm," he moaned at the taste of her before lifting his head once more. His words were designed to evoke her most visceral and feral response. "You'll come to the rhythm of all of them today." 

She screamed in response once more, and he lowered his head to her in earnest. He ran his tongue far inside her--sliding along one wall. She let out a throaty groan, and he danced his tongue down deep inside her, sending off shockwaves of desire throughout her body. 

She was letting out screaming whimpers, when he lifted his head once more. He smiled at her. "Wrap your legs around me, my dear wife." His eyes were incredibly feral. "Your husband has a present for you." 

Her mouth was open in desire, her eyes wide. Her breathing was already coming in shallow gasps. He was tormenting her so deeply she wasn't sure she could ever stop feeling desire for him; she was beginning to think that she would spend the rest of her life in aching arousal. 

"Miiii-kel" was the best she managed to breathe out at him. He smiled once more and ran his tongue down deep inside her again--to her strangled groan. 

Her hips bucked against him, as he started a rhythm on her. Her legs were wrapped around him, as he held her up to his mouth by her soft curves. 

She let out little gasping moans. Her eyes were locked to the sight of him--his hungry, feral eyes commanding her gaze, his suddenly huge tongue stroking her depths in abandon. He was moving her hips in a rhythm on him. . . . It was one of the most erotic things she had ever seen. 

She moved herself toward him faster--needing more of him. He groaned and complied; he loved taking her like this--loved tasting her. The various parts of his body got jealous of each other in their desire to please her; each one wanted to claim the wonderful prize of her release, wanted to feel her trembling around it. 

He could think of *nothing* better than this. He ached for her pleasure--felt a hunger for it in his bones. He wanted to bring her to a racking, throbbing orgasm like this so that he could then give her another by taking her--roughly and deeply. He had been in need for her for hours; he wanted desperately to give her every hard inch of himself and hear her groan out for more. 

She was moaning beneath him. He put her hips back on the blanket and pressed his tongue down further into her in their rhythm--managing to hit her incredibly deep. The feeling teased and trembled through her. His nose hit her bud with his increasing advance. 

"Uhhhh . . . uhhhh, Miiiii-chaaaaaell," she moaned. 

He growled out in feral, intense need and put his hands on her hips, holding them down on the blanket. He stroked his tongue in and out of her roughly--dementedly. 

He was hitting a tender, deep inner spot each time--his advances somehow increasing further and further into her. She was letting out short screams of need and near-completion. 

He growled savagely again, desperate for her release. He ran his teeth up to scrape lightly across her bud and then stroked his tongue hard and deep into her, licking roughly at the delicate spot he had been tormenting. His nose brushed by her oversensitized bud, and he gave one more deep, rough stroke into her--hitting her *exactly* where she needed him. 

She let out a loud scream and bucked at him wildly. Her walls pulled tightly at his tongue, and she could feel it dancing inside her. 

She howled, as he drank from her deeply. His hands were once again on her soft curves, as he held her up to take in her need. 

She took a long time to come down. Little whimpers escaped her, as he stroked her lightly through it. 

God, he felt so damn good. He knew her every desire, seemed to feel them as his own. . . . And he had *no* qualms about playing them out to their fullest. 

Once her trembling had calmed down slightly, he lifted his head from her and smiled at her deeply. "Did you like that?" 

She let out a small whimper, nodding slightly. She was still shuddering pleasantly, but she was also desperate to have him join with her. 

She still wasn't fully capable of speech, though. "Mi-chael," she moaned out. Her eyes were wide with desire. 

He growled. He loved her like this--insane with desire, shaking with the pleasure he had given her but still hungry for more. The fact that she was far beyond any true powers of speech made him brutally feral in his need to torment her further with words--to arouse and fulfill her in every way he could find. 

His smile was a little cruel. Her breathing grew faster and more shallow--desperate to hear what new torments he was preparing for her. 

His hands ran along her sides, as he spoke. His tongue came out to run over his lips. "Mmm, you taste wonderful, my love." He leaned over to breathe his words over her lips. "No wonder I married you." 

"Uhhhh--Mi-chael," she groaned. Her eyes were wide with need. 

His teeth caught softly at her lower lip and pulled at it until it slipped from them--keeping eye contact the entire time. He heard her whimper and smiled. "Mmm," he nipped a kiss over her lips before pulling back from her and sitting up. 

He held her gaze heatedly while he lowered his hands down to the waistband of his pants; he was gratified when her attention was riveted there instantly. "You have been *very* bad, my dear wife." He unfastened his pants and began to lower them slightly, just bringing his throbbing arousal into view. "I think you do deserve a little punishment." 

He revealed his throbbing, thickened length to her loud groan. Her legs widened a bit further, her hips thrusting unconsciously toward him. Oh God, she wanted him inside her. 

He let out a throaty laugh, as he stood and removed his one item of clothing. She looked up at him, still focused intensely on his bobbing arousal. "Y-essssss," she hissed out. 

His arousal grew further--almost painfully for him--at her intense scrutiny. "Mmm," he murmured, returning to his knees and then leaning in to prop himself on his arms above her. His eyes were a little serious. "You told me earlier you wanted to be the object of my darkest fantasy. Is that still true?" 

She couldn't speak, but her widened eyes were filled with desire. She nodded shakily, trying to thrust her hips to rub them against him. 

He licked his lips at her. "Good," he smiled, "because you will be." 

She groaned loudly. He leaned back to kneel between her legs; his hands ran along her sides again. "My dearest fantasy is to make love to you as my wife." His smile grew more feral. "My darkest is to have you submit to me completely--joyously, while I possess you ruthlessly." His eyes burned at her. "I'm thinking about combining them." 

A groan emerged from the depths of her heart and soul. Her eyes gave him complete permission--for anything; they begged him to use her roughly, to spare her nothing in their shared passion. "Y-essss, Mi-chael," she moaned. 

A growling laugh rose from him. "Good, my love." 

He lay himself over her, his hands on her back, his lips near hers. His arousal was throbbing against her--teasing her. His smile was playfully cruel; he licked his lips again. 

"Uhhhh," she moaned. She tried to lean toward him to capture his mouth, but he moved just away from her. 

He shook his head. "This is my playground, Nikita--my rules." Her eyes shone in love and desire at him. "And the first rule is--I'm in charge. Understand?" 

She nodded shakily at him, mouth agape--her breathing very ragged. He grinned ferally at her again. "And the second rule is," he moved in very close to her lips--his hands went up to untangle hers from her robe but still held them behind her head, "you've been a very, very bad girl and a *very* naughty wife." 

************ 

The groan she let out was drowned in the deep, possessive kiss he gave her. His fingers entwined with hers behind her head as his hips adjusted himself and then entered her slightly--beginning to stroke his large tip back and forth just inside her. 

A soul-deep groan got muffled, as he kissed her more possessively. She was trembling with the sensations he gave her--was grabbing onto his fingers. He stroked himself a little further in--still using the head of his shaft to tease her, stroking it back and forth again inside her. 

She moaned deeply and tried to move her hands out from under her to hold his head to her. His fingers just grabbed hers more tightly, though, refusing to let her go. 

She tilted her head to take his tongue deeper into her mouth. She began suckling it--hinting at what she truly wanted. 

He let out a groaning laugh and pulled from the kiss. His shaft stroked a bit further into her and repeated his pattern again--this time about half-way in; she moaned. 

"Very naughty, my sweet `Kita." His eyes glowed at her. "You're being impatient." His strokes moved just a little further into her--where several delicate spots were; he stroked her a little more roughly. "Just for that you deserve a little punishment." 

"Yyy-es!" she shouted, her need becoming desperate. 

His teeth nipped over her lips lightly, and he smiled at her again, disentangling his hands from hers. "Keep them where I tell you," he warned playfully, "or I just might have to find an alternate use for your robe again." 

She moaned desperately, as he kissed along her jaw and then ran his tongue down her throat and breastbone. She leaned her head back and moaned, and he caught at her nipple--holding it in his teeth. 

"Hard!" she begged. He growled against her, as he began to run his teeth back and forth over her, with just the rough pressure she wanted. 

"Uhhhh," she moaned. She tried to wrap her legs around him, insane to feel him completely inside her. 

His hands ran down from her back, and he caught her thighs--holding them down on the blanket. His arousal moved its pattern further in--closer to her core. 

She groaned loudly and tried to thrust toward him to take him completely into herself. He held her thighs down more firmly, his strokes continuing in exactly the same way. His mouth became feral with her nipple--biting at it more roughly, holding it in his teeth and pulling away until it slipped from between them. 

She cried out loudly in need and tried to thrust forward to take him into her completely. His eyes were very bright and commanding. "That's a very naughty girl," he teasingly chastised her. Then he stroked almost completely out of her and entirely back in--hitting her core deep, his entrance leaving her shaking. 

She let out a short scream at his entry, overwhelmed with the sweet warmth of it. "Miiiii-miiiii," she couldn't make it past the first syllable of his name. She looked back up at him with eyes which were adoring. 

He smiled back at her deeply and began to kiss around her throat. He wasn't moving inside her yet--was giving her time to recover. "My sweet wife," he murmured against her throat. He looked up at her. "You do like it rough, don't you?" 

"Mi-chael!" she screamed. Her hands came out to hold him into a deep kiss, which he allowed with a happy groan. 

God, what a siren she was--only her love didn't lead men to deaths on the rocks; it led them to paradise. He kissed her back intensely, taking control of it, his fingers caught in her hair, as he held her to him. 

He began their rhythm now, began stroking her deeply--his thrusts singing through her entire depths, the huge head leading his advance. She moaned and wrapped her legs tightly around him--loving this . . . wanting more. 

He ran his teeth over her lower lip, as he pulled back to look at her. "Mmm," he moaned, watching her adoring eyes. "You were made for this," he started riding her a little harder, to her prolonged, deep moan. He groaned in response, a smile on his lips. "You were made to take me." His eyes burned an erotic fire at her. "You were molded for no other purpose." 

She couldn't talk anymore. Her lips tried to move to the form of his name. Her eyes said that she belonged to him absolutely. 

He held onto her hips, as he rode her further in. "Mmm . . . there aren't enough ways for me to make love to you, my wife--there's never enough time to do you justice." 

She moaned back at him, and he stroked into her harder. "Mmm, you're so slick, so silken," he nipped his teeth over her lips, "so tight. You were made to be adored by me." 

His hands unwrapped her legs from him and ran them up her body a little to hold them down on the blanket. He was once again grateful that she was so limber--he never wanted to hurt her. 

She moaned loudly. The position pushed him deeper, made her tighter; she felt every minute, throbbing part of him, as he rode her good and deep. 

Her eyes were wide--were locked firmly to his. Her mouth formed out soundlessly, "Oh God--Michael." 

"Yessss," he hissed, riding her a little more roughly, reading her thoughts. "I'm huge for you, because God made me only for my true wife's pleasure." He smiled deeply. "Only my Nikita will ever know me like this." 

He broke eye contact for a second, still riding her hard, and leaned down to run his teeth over her throat. Her head went back, whimpering. 

He could feel her pulse pounding dementedly. He looked back up at her again, his smile wicked. "And she's going to know me this way today as many times as she can survive me." 

"Michael," her lips formed. She could feel his soul mixing with hers. "Tell me I'm your wife," she said soundlessly. 

He read her message in her trembling lips. He smiled gently, as his strokes--paradoxically--got rougher. 

She groaned loudly. He was pounding against an incredibly delicate inner spot, one which teetered her precariously on the edge. 

"Mmm," he smiled, understanding her every emotion, "that's right." He put his hands back on her shoulders. "You *are* my wife," his eyes grew serious, "the only one I've *ever* had." He read her objections in her eyes, and he shook his head, pressing his point. "You're the only one my soul has *ever* recognized--the only one it *ever* will." 

She moaned loudly, her hands clawing at his back. He got far rougher, stroking deep inside her. "That's right, my sweet one." His hands ran up to frame her face. "That's right, my beautiful, *only* wife." He started giving her short, hard, very deep strokes, to her little cries of need; the head of his huge shaft was becoming ruthless with the gentle spot, and he was becoming even hungrier for her pleasure. "Come for your husband." 

He moved further in, trebling his strokes in her brutally. Her whole body was frozen, every muscle tense; she was letting out a high-pitched cry. "Come for the man who loves you." 

Her eyes widened with his amazing words; he pulled almost completely out of her and then stroked savagely back into her, impacting the tender spot with incredible force. Her cry got louder. "Come hard," he commanded. He repeated the stroke twice. 

Her nails tore into his back, as her cry became inhuman. Her body felt like it was imploding; the pleasure was so strong she felt like she was coming apart, like she would disintegrate into her core components out of sheer, unsurpassable ecstasy. 

She closed her eyes, her head falling back, her cry gurgling in her throat. "No," Michael pleaded--a catch suddenly in his voice; he stroked his fingers near her eyes, "look at me, please." He panted. "Please, my wife." 

Nikita somehow managed to force her eyes open again to look at the most beautiful man ever born--the man her soul was made for. Her voice was absolutely incapable of functioning, but her mind screamed the truth to him: "Michael, my only husband . . . oh God, *I love you*!" 

She was trembling fiercely beneath him. She wasn't making a sound beyond a little gasping, choking noise between her groans, but he heard every word of her declaration. "`Kita," he sighed in incredible love and leaned down to her--taking advantage of her open mouth to ravish its warm, soft depths. 

She whimpered in the kiss and held him to her--little cries escaping her from time to time. Her velvet walls were trembling incredibly tightly around his sweet shaft. 

She broke from the kiss to let out a cry, when he began giving her long, slow strokes again. If she had still been capable of rational thought, she would have wondered how *any* man could have such fortitude--such longevity, . . . but rational thought had left her long ago. 

In truth, Michael was using every ounce of his formidable will to delay his release; every muscle in his body was tense with the coming explosion, but he simply couldn't let go yet. As cataclysmic as the last release he had given her was, he was desperate to give her one more. He was--and always had been--an addict to her pleasure; a taste of it *always* made him want more. 

"Yes, `Kita," he whispered to her, his hand on her face. "Oh God, my sweet wife," his eyes were tearing, "I need you so much." 

He lifted her toward him, as he sat back--bringing her up to sit on his lap--riding him deeply. She let out a short cry at how far he went into her, and she threw her head back--closing her eyes. 

She would push her hips back from him before falling onto him roughly, over and over again. She wanted him once again--desperately--yet she was still trembling in her previous release. The combination teetered her on the edge of sanity. 

He held her face, running his thumb over her cheek--watching her joy. "Yes, my `Kita, yes," he moaned. "You taught me pleasure--you brought me life." 

She began riding him much more quickly, ruthlessly impacting her most tender spot on his hardened tip with each journey. She was moaning desperately. 

He thrust his hips at her more quickly, loving the way her body responded to him--loving the look of utter, destructive pleasure on her face . . . loving *her*. He tried to tell her as best he could. "The first time I made you smile, something was born in my heart." Her eyes opened to look at him with intense love and need, and he groaned--his thoughts becoming more intimate, his voice even softer. "The first time I made you come *I* was born--my soul was created." 

He kissed her deeply for a second, as she groaned throatily in it. He pulled back to continue. They were both riding each other brutally now--were becoming increasingly rougher in their intense need; he was buried *very* deep inside of her--their strokes short and rough against the same achingly sensitized inner spot. 

"You're my wife," he went on, "because you own my soul, because you are everything I will ever love." She moaned desperately, as he held her almost-painfully close to him--his hands on her back. "Without you, I would *never* have known any pleasure from my soul." 

She was letting out desperate little whimpers, as his thoughts grew darker, running over the indubitable results, had he had to live his life without her. "Without you, I would have been dead and decaying--the physical fact just a delay of the spiritual." His eyes burned at her. "My soul is yours alone; my body is simply alive to prove it." 

He took hold of her hips and increased their strokes dozens of times over--to her scream of pleasure. He was pounding her down brutally onto his incredibly-aroused shaft. His whole length was alive in its need, was trembling in near-release. 

He was hitting her most sensitized spot ruthlessly each time. "Now, prove that I'm your husband; take the pleasure that only I can give you. Give me the ecstasy I can only *ever* know with you. Please," he slammed her most delicate spot down brutally onto him three times--each time rougher than the last, "call for me." He repeated the action--more brutally than any of the previous times. 

"MIIIIIIIIICHAAAAEEEELLLLLL!!!!" she screamed loudly, as he rammed himself into her and ground himself into her core at a perilous depth once more. Her head was back, her eyes closed; her whole body was undulating desperately against him--was racked by the incredible throes of her ecstasy. 

With the one tiny scrap of sanity she had left, however, she knew she needed him to join her. With a Herculean effort, she took his face in her hands and looked at him once more--her eyes tearing; she then groaned out from the absolute depths of her soul, "I love you, my dear husband." 

Michael screamed and bucked himself up into her four times, before releasing his warmth deep, deep inside her. "UNNNNNNHHHHH," he moaned. 

His head was back, his eyes closed, but he was holding onto her desperately--was clinging to her, as he thrashed against and into her. She watched him for a second, before she was overtaken by the power of her release--which had increased with the amazing sensation of his deeply spreading warmth; she leaned her head back and groaned. 

A second later, though, they both felt the pull of one another's souls; they pulled each other forward and fell onto one another, each burying their faces in the other's neck. His shaft was giving its last, ecstatic spasms in her, was being caressed by her incredibly tight, shuddering walls. 

The incredible ecstasy of it was only the smallest part, though. They were bound together in much more than simple physical ways. Their souls tied themselves to each other with a fierce force--one which dared any outsider to try to come between them, one which knew that any separation of their souls was a cosmic impossibility. 

They held one another tightly, as they shuddered together--each sensing the other's pleasure as though it were their own. The warmth and love between them extended to every level they existed on; there was no part of them that didn't feel it. 

It was many minutes later when either of them moved, and--even then--it was only to press blindly but knowledgeably toward each other's lips. They shared a soft, intimate kiss--one which explored and exchanged pleasure every bit as much as their union had, as their love always did. 

They continued it for many minutes, the softness of it soothing their overwrought nervous systems, calming them both into the intense solace their lovemaking always brought with it. Their breathing and heartbeats began slowly to return to normal--to synchronize themselves completely with one another, to share the complete union of their spirits. 

They finally looked back at each other--their eyes loving, their souls whole. Whatever the truth of their lives outside of this place, this was where they always were in spirit--synchronized in heartbeat, in breath, in love, and in life. 

They saw the truth in one another's eyes--whatever Section may think it could do to them was meaningless. That shadow organization had made a fatal error in allowing them to be together, even temporarily; the lovers--this husband and wife--had melded themselves into a single whole, and no amount of lies or covert dealing could ever part their souls again. Their hearts now beat as one, . . . and a single heartbeat could never be separated. 

*********** 

It was amazing, really, how much comfort could be found for them just lying in each other's arms. The peace, the joy . . . the wholeness of it was overwhelming. There would never be any other sensation to top it--for either of them. 

They had lain back down together after they had finally begun to recover from their last intense release. Their bodies were still entangled, the blanket pulled over them to keep them from getting a chill. 

They weren't sleeping, though; they were still a bit too aware of just how little time they had left. It wasn't really a weight upon them, fortunately, but it *was* making them more reflective, . . . more needy for one another's company. 

Michael's hand was stroking softly along Nikita's back and shoulder, as he thought about their past and worried about their future. They had come up with a tentative plan to try to deal with the future depravities of Section, it was true, but he was suddenly worried about how effective it would be. 

His cheek rubbed sadly over her head, as her hand traced lightly over his chest. He sighed slightly. It wasn't Section which worried him, really. . . . It was himself--how *he* might act--what he might do to her. 

He shuddered slightly, and she kissed his chest lightly. "What is it, Michael?" 

He closed his eyes, holding back tears, and kissed the top of her head. "Nothing," he claimed, trying not to bring more pain to their little remaining time together. 

"Michael," she said softly, warningly. No matter how painful, all of his and Section's years of lies had made her *desperate* for the truth--especially now, when they truly had the chance to share it. 

He swallowed a little heavily. "I'm afraid, `Kita," he said softly. 

She blinked before leaning up enough to look at him. "Afraid?" She couldn't remember him *ever* admitting to that emotion, except when he had been drugged by Perez--when he didn't remember who he was. 

He blinked back tears and forced himself to look at her. "What if I can't do it?" He sighed softly. "What happens when I fall back into my old habits--when I lie to you--manipulate you again?" His eyes searched hers with pain and a little desperation. "What happens when I'm forced to choose between your life and your soul--and I make the choice I know I will?" He swallowed heavily, his breathing becoming increasingly shallow; his hand stroked over her cheek. "I don't want to lose you." 

Nikita closed her eyes for a second to shut back the pain. He was being utterly honest with her, was looking deep into himself to see what he knew was there, . . . but what was there terrified him. . . . She understood, of course; it terrified her, as well. 

His fear, too, made him turn to her for answers. Even though he knew she didn't have one, he was begging her for a way out--was begging her to save him from himself, from his own evil. 

She turned her head to place a strong kiss in the center of his palm before rubbing her cheek back over it, reminding him that she was still here. He caressed the cheek--trying to remind himself. 

She sighed a little and attempted to answer his question, shaking her head once, as his thumb continued to stroke over her cheek. "I don't know what to tell you, Michael." She sighed more heavily, swallowing back her tears. "I want to believe that you won't hurt me again, but I know that's not true." 

He tried to blink back a tear, but it escaped anyway. She swallowed and reached up to gently stroke it away, her eyes focused on it. "I want to be able to trust you--more than anything I can name." Her voice was very soft; she looked back to his eyes. "But we both know that I can't." 

He closed off the view of her for a second, as more of his tears fell. "`Kita," he breathed. He looked back at her, eyes begging her to understand. "I don't *want* to hurt you." He swallowed heavily. "I don't *want* to do anything but take care of and love you. . . . I want to share my life with you completely." 

Her eyes were locked sadly to his; he took in a shaky breath and admitted something he never really had out loud before. "I don't want to spend my whole life destroying people--blowing up targets; that's what I was sent to prison for in the first place--was my first crime." 

He swallowed heavily, trying to continue. "I want to spend my life being a husband to you--being a father to our children." His hand stroked over her face. "I don't *ever* want to see you cry because of me again." He swallowed once more, as his tears fell. "I don't *ever* want to make you sad." 

She blinked back her own tears. "I know," she nodded. She kissed his palm once more and took hold of his hand. Her eyes were kind but very serious. "I know you love me." 

She brought his hand up to kiss its palm again before regrasping it on his chest; she sighed heavily. "But I also know that it won't stop you from hurting me." She swallowed back her tears. "As little as I like it, as little as I can ever forgive you for it, I know you'll do it again." 

He closed his eyes, as his tears flowed. . . . She was right--he knew it. He *would* hurt her again, no matter what he told himself--no matter what he promised himself. Eventually, he knew, Section would make the choice obvious once more--save Nikita's soul by letting her conscience make her useless to them, by letting her be canceled--or save her life by destroying, once again, the beautiful purity of her inner light. 

He swallowed heavily, forcing himself to face his own truth. He knew, when that choice came again, that he would choose her life without a moment's thought--even if that choice ended in his ever-lasting regret--even if it turned her into the worst of all possible creatures . . . himself. 

He carefully forced her to let go of his hand, before he covered his eyes, hiding his tears from her. . . . He hated himself--hated the vile part of his soul which allowed him to repeatedly destroy her. He wished, just once, that he could be the man she needed, that he could let her make her own moral decisions--wherever they might lead. 

The tears were flowing steadily, as he tried to stop them. He knew that her inevitable decision to side with morality would destroy her chances for physical life. And he also knew, whatever the tragic consequences, he could never, *never* allow that to happen--could *never* allow her to be taken from him. 

He truly felt that she should leave him. If he was the enemy to her soul that they both knew him to be, she would, at least, be better off if she wasn't sullied by the touch of his flesh against hers. 

Nikita, however, surprised him--confounded his efforts to save her, once again. "Ssh, my Michael, quiet," her gentle voice soothed his quiet weeping. She leaned down to gently kiss the tears from his face. 

A groan caught in his throat; his eyes were still covered. "`Kita," he groaned out, trying to turn his face away from her. He did *not* deserve her. 

She began kissing his hand softly. "No, my love, no." He tried to jerk away from her at her words--wanting to distance her from him. She caught at him, though, and kissed at his hand, as she pried it away from his face. 

He groaned, as she kissed gently around his tightly-closed eyes. "Look at me, Michael," she said softly. 

"No." His voice was a little gruff. His chest was still shaking slightly from his tears. 

She repositioned herself to lie on top of him--looking down at his face. His arousal throbbed strongly back to life inside of her. "Look at me," she insisted. 

He groaned loudly and tried to remove himself from within her. She trapped him beneath her, though, and held him there. Her hands framed his face strongly but gently. "Look at me *now*, my love," her soft voice commanded. 

He did finally. His eyes were angry and tormented. . . . Why the *hell* didn't she just leave him? 

She put her finger on his lips to keep him from voicing his obvious next thought. "*No*." Her voice was a little rough, as well. She shook her head. "I'm not going," she answered his thoughts. 

His eyes were confused, angry, and frightened; his voice was still a little gruff. "Why not?" 

Her hands stroked more softly over the sides of his face, wiping away the tears. She sighed slightly. "You're right--we both know it," she conceded. Her eyes were strong but saddened. "You will hurt me again." She swallowed. "Neither of us want it, but it'll happen." 

She sighed more deeply--her look warning him that she wasn't finished yet; his eyes continued to betray him by shedding more tears. "I'm not giving you my permission," she continued to elaborate. "If you want my forgiveness, you can forget it. It's not gonna happen." She shook her head. "I'm not going to make hurting me any easier for you." 

He nodded, understanding, and she went on to finish her explanation. "I've told you before, though--just because I hate that side of you doesn't mean I love this other side any less." Her hands stroked over his tears, wiping them away. 

He swallowed heavily, his eyes closing momentarily at her gentle touch. "And when I do hurt you again?" He refocused on her strongly. 

She shrugged. Their situation was hopelessly twisted, thanks to Section and Michael's conditioned response to their orders, but--on some level--it was very simple, too. "I'll be angry. I'll be hurt." Her voice got softer. "I'll hate you again, . . . and I'll have every right to." 

He nodded once more, following her completely. She shook her head, going on to finish out her point. "But none of that will change how I feel about the man you've got trapped inside you." She stroked her hand over his breastbone. Her eyes were very strong. "I'll love him long beyond the day I die." 

He shook his head, not even knowing where to begin. He hated that he had her in such a position--knew that she despised being forced into such a split of emotions, knew she wanted--should be able--to just love him, to trust him. . . . But he also knew that that wasn't a possibility for them. "I want to be the man you love, Nikita." He shook his head. "I want that so much." 

She nodded. "I know, Michael. I know." She sighed. "But he's always there--he's always in you." She smiled at him. "Underneath all of the pain is the man I love." She sighed once more, giving him a saddened smile. "I just wish you let him out more often." 

He closed his eyes, tormented and completely unsure, at the moment, of the presence of anything redeemable within him. She leaned down to kiss near one tightly-closed eye--kissing away a tear, and he took in a breath. 

He refocused on her, as she leaned back. His eyes were uncertain and a little hard, as he stated his nagging fears. "Are you sure he exists?" 

She nodded. "Yes," she stated definitively. She sighed at his obvious disbelief and looked down at his chest, remembering a way to let him know the truth. "I've met him, Michael." She smiled. "He spent three days with me once." Her hand stroked over his chest. "I loved him." 

He seemed to take a deep, sharp breath, and she sighed, looking back up at him to explain. "It was during the Perez mission, when you lost . . ." 

He interrupted her. "I know." 

She blinked. "What do you mean?" 

His eyes were very teary--sad and loving. "I remember." 

Her eyes widened at him; her voice was a little small. "You remember?" She took a sudden breath. "Everything?" He nodded. "For how long?" she demanded quietly, confused. 

He sighed, ready to face her just wrath again. "Since I woke up in Medical." 

She pulled back from him a little more. "You've known all along? You . . ." she was stammering a bit, very flustered, "you told me you loved me and then *pretended* you forgot?" 

His eyes were still very sad. He explained why in one word. "Elena." 

She closed her eyes for a second before looking back at him. She shook her head slightly, flustered, and pulled herself off of his aroused length in a ragged breath before sitting up to turn away from him. 

He watched her sadly. He hated that he had done this. He had *hated* lying to her; it had torn at him horribly. . . . He had needed to do it, though. It had simply been the only thing which could have begun to ensure his sanity within his ongoing mission. 

She was hugging her knees slightly, rocking a little. She wasn't angry so much as she was in shock. All she could do was think of all of the things he remembered--all of the months she had almost told herself that it hadn't been real. 

He took a deep breath finally--unable to quietly watch her torment any longer, needing to explain--and sat up behind her. He ran his hand softly over her shoulder and back, and she turned her head toward him slightly. "You don't know how many times I wanted to tell you it was true, Nikita." She closed her eyes, and he went on, trying to explain. "When I woke up--when I remembered the person I had been for a few days," he paused, his lips open to speak for a few seconds--unable to find the words, "I couldn't believe it--couldn't believe that I had been so honest with you." 

He sighed and kissed the side of her head, as she shuddered; he needed so desperately for her to know everything. "I wanted to tell you, wanted you to believe that I could be that person," he sighed again, "wanted to thank you." His voice got softer. "But you don't know how many times I doubted my memories--doubted whether that person could even be a part of me." 

She finally found her voice, even if it was rather small; her eyes were still closed. "You knew that you'd told me you loved me?" 

He nodded, pained. "Yes." He leaned forward to kiss her temple softly again. "It's always been true." 

She turned to look at him fully. Her eyes were begging him for the truth, even if she already knew it. "Why couldn't you just admit it?" 

His hand stroked over her hair. "I couldn't risk it." 

She sighed slightly and looked away. She knew that Section was a threat to them, but--at the moment--she was tired of hearing it. 

"No," he went on, kissing her temple again--reading her thoughts. "It wasn't for them that I couldn't take the risk. It was for us." 

She looked back up at him, confused. He stroked away a stray tear that had escaped and continued. "If I had told you then, if I had admitted it and you then found out about Elena--about that mission," he shook his head a little, closing his eyes briefly before refocusing on her, "you would *never* believe me, when I told you again." He swallowed heavily. "It would have been the ultimate betrayal." He shook his head once more, asking to finish his last thought. "You would never believe in any of my feelings after that." 

Her hand reached up to stroke his cheek; her eyes still had tears in them. "That's the only reason?" 

He shook his head once more, his eyes sad. "No. That's the main one." She gave him a look to encourage him to finish. "The other one was just fear." 

"Of Section?" 

He nodded. "Yes. Of Section--of their reaction to you." He sighed unhappily, trying to explain. "In some ways, `Kita, I've been married to Section for most of my life. It's a relationship which has taken precedence over any other--which has forced me into many others. I promised it I'd be faithful only to it, back when I had nothing else to believe in." He shook his head. "Section doesn't believe in divorce." 

She laughed a little, with only vague humor. "Till death do us part." 

************ 

They both caught their breath on a little, shared moan. The words were--obviously--a bit too close to home; they struck deep into their hearts, piercing them with incredible fear. 

Their eyes were trapped within their intense gaze for several seconds, before they leaned forward to capture each other in a deep kiss for several seconds. Their fearful emotions then forced it to become more intense--almost fierce, as they held one another in it strongly. The words had reminded them far too much of their own, precarious situation; it had brought back all of their fears of separation--fears only their proximity to each other could quell. 

The kiss continued for some time, as they both used it to try to draw comfort from one another. . . . It was only when they were able to lose themselves in each other's souls, after all, that they felt whole--that their fears subsided into their usual dull roar. 

They started giving one another a series of small, intense, sensual kisses. They were both trying to taste the beauty of the other's soul--of their shared love. They both understood undeniably, at the moment, that they needed one another to survive. 

Michael pulled back from it with a groan, finally. He needed to tell her something--needed her to understand. 

His hands ran over her face, as his eyes captured hers--telling her just how important his words were. "I love you,`Kita." 

She took in a slightly gasping breath. His eyes held a fierce devotion, as he continued to explain. "I don't know how often--or whether--I'll ever be able to tell you again, once our time here is over, but that fact will *never* change. I love you--heart, mind, body, and soul." His eyes burned at her. "And I don't want you to *ever* forget it." 

She gasped in another breath quietly. "Michael." Her eyes searched his, almost unable to accept the truth she found there. Her hand ran up to stroke over his temple. "I will *never* stop loving you. No matter the pain, no matter *what else* I might feel, I will never stop loving you." 

"`Kita," his eyes were lost to hers. His thumb stroked over her cheek, as his eyes became a little determined. There were things he needed to tell her--things she had to know. "I promise to love you--even long after our deaths. I promise to love, honor and cherish you." 

Her eyes widened at his words, as he sighed, his look becoming a little saddened; he continued to tell her what was in his heart. "I promise to try to change--to want it. And I promise that, when I don't, I'll accept your wrath as the vengeance you so justly deserve--as your only hope of protection from my repeated injuries." 

She closed her eyes for a second, tears flowing from them, at his impromptu, if slightly pessimistic, marriage vows. She knew just how hard the words were for him--how much effort it had taken him to admit all this. . . . God, she loved him so much. 

He leaned in to her to kiss her eyelids. "I take you--now and forever--as the companion of my heart and soul." She looked back at him, her gaze loving and tearful. "No matter what I'm forced to do by Section, anyone else I'm with--no matter how innocent or beautiful--is a degradation of my body." He shook his head; he was having *no* trouble meaning every word of his vows. "No matter what, I will only *ever* take pleasure in my love for you. Everyone else," he sighed, "is a *very* cruel test." 

"Michael," she sighed. Her eyes held such adoration of him; her hand stroked over his cheek. His vows, admittedly, were unorthodox, but their lives made all normal promises meaningless. . . . His words' uniqueness, in fact, was what made them real. 

She couldn't make her vows completely the same, but she felt every word of her own, nonetheless. "I will love you for as long as I exist, anywhere--in any form. My body and soul will only *ever* answer to you--will only ever respond to your love." 

He was watching her, spellbound. She swallowed back tears, continuing. "No matter what happens to us, I will always love, honor, and cherish you." Her voice got very soft. "Even at those times that my anger seems to cancel out every other emotion, my love for you will never disappear." 

His eyes watched her so lovingly. She sighed, as her thumb traced his cheek. "There will *never* be anyone else," she shook her head, "not ever." 

"`Kita," he sighed, eyes enraptured. 

Her voice was very soft, as she continued on with the less pleasant part of her vows. "You can hurt me more deeply than anyone else, because of that, Michael. Your harsh words can scar my soul far worse than someone else's physical blows." She sighed, her eyes still devoted to him. "But--no matter how much pain exists between us, no matter how often I feel that my hate has overtaken me, I *will* still love you. *Nothing* that happens can *ever* cancel that out." 

"`Kita," he sighed again. Her words had touched him far more deeply than any declaration of eternal forgiveness could. She had told him, instead, that--while she wasn't, sanely, capable of ignoring the pain he--too regularly--gave her, she would always love him enough to work past it with him--to allow him to make it up to her as best he could, as he tried to mature beyond Section's narrow, incomplete definition of him. 

He kissed her lips very softly, pulling back before she could capture his lips in full. He took her left hand in his and stroked her ring finger. He looked down at it. "If I could, I'd give you some symbol--would show you how much I cared with a sign." He looked back up at her. "I want to exchange rings with you--to mark you as my own, to be marked by you--to show to anyone who sees us that we belong to each other--*no one* else." 

He brought the hand up to his lips and kissed the finger where the ring would have gone, as her eyes watched him lovingly. "All I can give you, instead, is my vow: no matter what may ever seem to be true," his eyes grew tormented, "no matter how much I may hurt you because I can't stand the fear of being bereft of you--I will love you for the rest of my life and beyond." He shook his head. "*Nothing* will ever change that." 

She leaned up to kiss him softly for a minute. She leaned back to hear his groan, and she brought his hand up to her lips to kiss his ring finger--running her tongue around its base for a second before kissing it again. "You have my heart, Michael." She shook her head. "No amount of pain will ever be able to cancel that out." 

"`Kita," he sighed, adoringly, waiting for her final vows. 

"You're the partner to my heart and soul, Michael." She shook her head. "No matter what happens between us--no matter how I try to deny it, you will always be the only person I will ever be bound to." She brought his hand up to kiss his finger once more. "My only union is with you." 

"`Kita, yes," he moaned. He pulled her forward to capture her in a deep, soft, seductive kiss. 

They both moaned in it, held each other in it. Their vows of union had not, certainly, been traditional ones; few couples swore their love by admitting that there would be lies, betrayals, and faithlessness on his side and pain and hate on hers. Their kiss grew more intense. Most couples, though, weren't in Section--most had some chance to, at least, create or destroy their union on their own terms. 

For this one, though, the very fact that they loved was a miracle and a danger; they were not their own people--were not allowed to make their own, important decisions. All they could hope for, therefore, was that--somewhere among the betrayals and the fury--they could love one another well. 

He groaned in the kiss, as it became more feral. He had never anticipated that he would finally tell her the words she had needed to hear from him for so long--had never thought that he would have the strength. 

But he had. He had told her--had given voice to the truth of his soul. . . . And he had never adored her more than he did now. 

He took control of the kiss. They only had the rest of this day left; he only had till tomorrow morning to love her, to impress upon her soul the absolute truth of his vows. All physical needs beyond love were lost to him. . . . Whatever the consequences, he was determined to enjoy--and, more importantly, to see that she enjoyed--every second of their short-lived honeymoon. 

Nikita moaned in it, holding on to him, as he began to lower her back to the blanket. She loved him so much--was so devoted to him. She was still a little in shock that he had actually looked her in the eye and admitted his love for her, that he had exchanged with her willingly the closest they would ever come to marriage vows. . . . Whatever their future, she was determined to enjoy this honeymoon, to revel in every second of their shared love. 

He lay himself on top of her--his arousal heavy and throbbing against her, taunting her with his need. The kiss grew even more passionate, as they both groaned in it--their need for each other insatiable. 

The soft, sensitive flesh of their bodies caressed along each other--tempted each other--made them burn. He groaned loudly, as he pulled back from the kiss to look at her. His eyes raked passionately through her soul. "We don't have enough time for all of our fantasies, my love." His eyes roamed adoringly over her face. "Which one would you like to try next?" 

His passionate look met hers, and she groaned. She loved that he asked--that he sincerely wanted to know what would please her, what she wanted. 

Her eyes turned slightly playful, as her mind made her ask an interesting, but unanswerable, question. "How long do you think it would take us to run out of fantasies to fulfill, Michael?" 

He growled slightly and leaned in to kiss her deeply for a few seconds. She moaned in it, before he pulled back to refocus on her. "Mine will take at least a few, very long, lifetimes." He smiled, a little playfully, as his hand stroked down her side. "Then we can start on yours." 

She growled and pulled him down into a deep kiss. They both moaned, as they searched each other's softness again. 

He pulled back once more to refocus on her, a growl rumbling in his chest. His smile was full of joy and need. "Tell me where we start this time, my sweet wife." 

Her eyes sparkled at his choice of names for her; she thought about it for a second and smiled deeply. "Do you ever think of me, when you shouldn't, Michael--when you know your mind should be elsewhere?" 

His eyes widened slightly, beginning to follow her thoughts. "What do you mean?" 

Her hand stroked over his cheek; her look was thoughtful--a little of the joy gone. "Your face is so hard when we're in Section, Michael--when we're on missions. Do you ever look at me--say, when we're in transit--and fantasize about taking me right there, while everyone else tries to pretend that nothing's unusual?" 

A growl rumbled from him. "`Kita." His breathing was getting faster. 

She continued her thought. "Because I do, Michael." She nodded. "I think about it a lot." 

Damn. The woman could reach into his most private thoughts and pull out his darkest fantasies and his most tender desires. . . . How she *always* managed it, he would *never* know. 

She saw that she hadn't been wrong. She smiled, a little ferally, her hand stroking along his cheek, as she explained her desires further; her eyes roamed his face. "I've always wanted to be certain that the mask you wear isn't everything." Her eyes went back to his. "I've always known it wasn't, but I want to see my theory in action." His eyes were a little afraid; she kissed him softly. "Make love to me with your Section face on, Michael." 

He shook his head. "`Kita, no," he begged. He didn't want her to see that side of him now--didn't want to have to hide his love and desire for her beneath the desire-less mask he was forced to wear to hide his soul from his masters. 

She nodded, understanding. "I'm not asking that you keep it on the whole time," she smiled. "I just want to see it for awhile." Her look grew serious, as she explained. "I need to know for certain that you're beneath it, my love; I need to know that--when I see you with it--the husband who loves and wants me is still underneath it." 

He nodded, his look gentle. He understood her desires--knew she needed this for future reassurance, needed to know that his love existed for her, in spite of anything his blank expression might claim. 

He didn't entirely like the idea, though. . . . . It frightened him a bit. He knew how much his blank look had hurt her before; he couldn't bear the thought of hurting her here on their honeymoon. 

His hand stroked along the side of her face. "Are you sure?" 

She was, but she needed reassurance. She repeated her earlier question. "Do you want me then, Michael? Do you ever think about it?" 

He growled, in tormenting need, and pulled her to him to kiss her ferally. She whimpered happily and held him in it. 

When he finally pulled back, he answered her. "I need you constantly--every second of every day. Sometimes, on long van or plane rides, I have to purposely distract myself with tacticals and reports, just to keep from watching you constantly--from fantasizing about you." He smiled a little. "It never stops me completely, but it gives me something else to pretend to be wrapped up in." 

She smiled back at him and reached up to hold him to her, as she kissed him deeply and lovingly. He moaned in it. When she finally pulled back to look at him, she asked him softly, "Show me, my Michael, my sweet husband. . . . Please." 

"You're sure?" he asked lovingly. 

"I'm positive," she affirmed. 

He kissed her once more--deeply, to her moan--and then leaned back to stand up. He held his hand down to her, and she followed. 

They stood there, for a minute, as his hand traced over her face. "I might hurt you," he warned. 

"No, you won't," she answered definitively. "Just show me this side of yourself." She kissed him lightly. "Please." 

He sighed and leaned in to capture her lips. He did understand her reasoning; she needed for them to exorcise the Section side of himself from their love--to let that side approach her in need, so that she could see that his emotions were real . . . so that they could work past all of the mixed feelings her love for him had given her about this side of himself. 

Their plan was unspoken but simple; they would give her partial control here, so that she could remind herself in the future that it wasn't the cruel side of him that she wanted. . . . Their love might be wild and feral, at times, but they could rid her of their fear that her love for him was simply a concealed form of masochism. 

He knew what he needed for their little game, as well. He needed his mission clothes; every operative kept one set of them at home, just in case. Nikita, though, would have to make do with something from her newly-acquired wardrobe. 

He kissed her again, then moved off with her to find their clothes--both of them understanding what they needed to do. Michael took his into the bathroom. For this to work, they needed to change separately. 

Nikita smiled, as she found some relatively tight, but soft-materialed, pants, a tank top, and a leather jacket of Michael's. She didn't really have the shoes for this, but she supposed--in this case--that they weren't really necessary. 

She smiled to herself. She loved that he had agreed to this--loved knowing that he wanted her, even when he looked so stoic and calm. 

The closer she got to this fantasy, the more she realized how much she needed it--how much they both did. It had only been yesterday, in fact, that Michael had tried to pull away from her out of his fear that he had made her want pain. They both needed to learn that her love for him, even with all his darknesses, wasn't about masochism; they both needed to understand that--no matter how they might approach each other sensually, no matter how rough they were--their need for each other was always founded on love. . . . If they could just remember this, after all, it might help save them from a lot of their nagging fears. 

************ 

She prepared herself, brushed some of the kinks out of her hair, and waited for Michael. . . . She had to admit, though, that she rather hoped that they managed to work past their clothes quickly; pants were *not* comfortable, at the moment. 

When he emerged finally, she had to half-repress a growl. The man knew how to wear clothes. And, unlike many men, he looked *almost* as good with them on, as he did with them off. 

Her eyes raked over his body. She loved the way his clothes clung to him; he wore them like a second skin. The pants, especially, were a featured attraction. They did nothing to hide his natural endowments. She did *love* to see him in them. 

Her eyes trailed a sensual heat slowly back up him. His clothes clung to him like an enraptured lover--molded themselves to his form; part of her wondered, in fact, whether he had decided to wear such form-fitting clothes early on in an attempt to make up for the lack of erotic touch in his life. He was, after all--for all he might deny it, a *very* sensual man--one who needed the lengthy, erotic feeling of a lover's warm skin pressed against his--not for a few minutes, not for simply as long as it took him to get off--but almost as an end unto itself. . . . He was a very special lover. 

When her eyes reached his again, she noticed that his breathing had escalated dramatically. His eyes held a sensual fire for her. 

She smiled back playfully at him. "How do you *ever* manage to wear those pants on missions?" 

His smile was half-playful and half-feral. "It's a gift." 

He began to approach her. He, too, had decided against shoes; they would only end up frustrating them, anyway. 

He gave her one more look with his true face, as he reached her--his eyes examining hers softly. "Tell me if you want to stop at any time," he offered, knowing that his blank expression would bring back *many* painful memories for her. 

She nodded quietly and leaned in to kiss him. She pulled back to give him a smile, and they then shared one more soft kiss, before their exorcism began. 

His hand was on her shoulder, as he leaned back from the kiss--almost as though he were trying to brace her for a physical shock. When he looked back at her, his face was its blank Section mask. 

She shuddered a little, not pleasantly. She had always--understandably--feared and distrusted this man; now, she was going to allow him to join with her in a communion she could only truly share with the other half of her soul. 

She knew, though, that this was right. They both needed it. She asked him, therefore, for what she needed to hear. "Do you want me, Michael?" 

His face was blank, but his eyes still burned sensually at her. His hand caressed her shoulder. "Yes." The word burned into her. 

She trembled slightly, and his other hand took hold of her, as well. He pulled her a little closer; his eyes trailed down to her lips. "I've wanted you from the first moment we met." His eyes continued to roam her features, as she continued to soften to him slightly. "I wanted you every day of training; I've needed you on every mission." He met her enraptured gaze again. "When we're in transit, I have to stop myself from following my desires." His eyes were scalding her in their passion. 

The heat in his gaze was working past her defenses; her soul was beginning to allow itself to understand that this was, indeed, her Michael. Her eyes traced the strong lines of his face. "And what are your desires?" 

A low groan rumbled somewhere in him. "To tell all of the other operatives to get out and walk," he was holding her much closer--was pressing her up along the length of his body, "to tell them to find their own ways back." 

Her eyes were wide. "And then?" she prodded him, loving this--wanting more. 

He smiled ferally. "Then to get the driver to go very slowly, as I cut off all communication with him and with Section. I come over to you and take off your belt, slide my hands under your jacket," he followed his fantasy with his hands, trailing them under the leather to feel the skin of her shoulders, "and pull it off." He did so, dropping it to the floor. 

His hands now traced a fire into the skin of her back. "I take off your holster and hold you within an inch of me--just enough to entice you to taste me." His lips were within a breath of hers. 

She groaned, but she still needed to know some things. "Is this a seduction, Michael, or do you really want me?" 

He smiled ferally at her. He took off his jacket and dropped it on the floor before taking her hand and trailing it down his own body. "I want you, Nikita. I want you to beg for me." He led her touch over his aroused nipple--to her groan--and down his hard chest toward his abdomen. "Do you like touching me?" 

She let out a growl in response. "Good," he stated firmly. He put both of her hands on his shirt. "Take it off," he ordered. 

Her breathing grew more unsteady. She pulled the shirt up and off of him quickly, revealing his beautiful chest. She began running her hand over him again, transfixed. "Do you like what you see?" he asked. 

She growled and looked up to meet his eyes. "*Yes*." 

His smile deepened, as he growled, as well. He took her hand, trailing it further down himself to brush over his, still-confined, throbbing arousal. She moaned. "Still think I don't want you?" he asked. 

"You've been trained," she pointed out. She couldn't resist stroking him, though. 

His eyes burned at her, as his hand came down to guide hers on his imprisoned shaft. "I don't feel like this when it's a job." 

"Mmm," she moaned, her look seductive. "So this is for me?" 

His eyes burned back at her. "Every inch of it." 

She groaned and leaned forward to breath over his lips. "Promise?" 

He growled and took her in a commanding kiss, his tongue guiding and exploring her. She moaned in response and stopped stroking him to lift her hand--drawing his head toward her in the kiss. He growled from deep in his throat. 

A minute later, he broke from the kiss long enough to order her softly, "Explore me." She moaned, as the kiss resumed. 

Her hands traced down his strong back, feeling the muscles there responding to her touch. He held her more closely to him and deepened the kiss further, taking greater command of her, and she moaned in it. 

God, he felt *so* good. From his mouth's conquering search of hers, to the press of his hard arousal against her, to the incredibly-defined muscles of his back--the silken glide of his skin, as her hands traced down him--he was amazing. His face, when he looked at her, was still almost cold, but the volcanic heat of his eyes made up for them a hundredfold. 

God, she wanted him, and she was beginning to truly accept that--even when he seemed the most distant, he still wanted her, too. She ran her hands down to trace over his firm curves, which the pants outlined so perfectly. She squeezed him--holding him toward her. She moaned when his arousal jumped in response. 

He growled in desire at her touch and broke the kiss to refocus on her. "Want to know what I'd do next?" his low voice shuddered seductively through her. 

She moaned out loud. "Yes. . . . Please." 

His eyes searched hers for a second to see how far he could go here--how ruthless she wanted him. Finding nothing but intense desire and love in her eyes, he continued. "I'd remind you that you're under orders--that I'm in command." 

She groaned loudly, but part of her mind was diverted by an unpleasant thought. "Am I a mission?" 

He smiled ferally. "No." He leaned forward to lick over her lips lightly, as she shuddered in need. "You're a delicious opportunity." He leaned back before she could catch him in the kiss. 

"Michael," she moaned. His Section side was gruff and a little harsh, but she knew his towering desire was real now, . . . and she understood--could feel, moreover--that all of his desire extended from his love for her. 

Of course, this side of him wasn't asking for her permission, as had the man she had been staying with for the last week or so. But he was also still taking nothing for granted. Before he extended the game any, he always searched her eyes, ran a hand over her neck to check her pulse rate, stared into her soul to be *certain* that this rough fantasy they were creating was really the one she wanted. And, every time, he found the same answer there--"Yes." . . . God, yes. 

Seeing her permission to continue again, he went on in his verbal torment, while running his hands lightly over her sides--his thumbs stroking over her nipples through her shirt before descending out of reach again. He let out a low growl. "Mmmm, I've been watching you for a *long* time, Nikita; I've been needing you from the day of your arrival." 

His hands ran over her abdomen and up her stomach toward her breasts. "I've watched you every day, as you returned from missions--knew you were wondering what the point of continuing was." Her eyes were focused lovingly on his; his hands ran to her back. "Well, this is the point." He drew her toward him in an intense, breath-stealing kiss. 

She whimpered in it, holding herself to him--her need for him increasing exponentially with every passing second. His hands ran to her curves and ground herself against him, as she whimpered more loudly. 

He broke from the kiss finally to refocus on her. "I know you wonder why you should stay alive sometimes--wonder what there is to go on for." His hands stroked under her shirt. "This is the reason." 

Her breath snagged, as he pulled the tank top up and over her head--discarding it on the floor. Her eyes were utterly devoted to him--to his every move. "You're my lover." His hands held her closer--roaming her back. "You're my wife." He nipped over her lips. "And we'll both go on for the memory of this, if nothing else." 

He nipped over her lips once more before giving little licking kisses over her cheek and down her throat. Her groan reverberated off his lips, and he growled. "Yes," he rumbled. 

She held his head to her, and he began to taste various, delicate bits of flesh on her neck, suckling them--his tongue rough. She whimpered. "Yes." 

He bit her slightly, and she moaned. She felt tears of need coming to her eyes; her desire for him was so overwhelming, she felt like it was making her insane. It aroused her perilously to be able to share in his fantasy --to know that it matched her own. 

He began to get a little rough with a spot which needed him desperately. "Ohhh . . . Michael, yes!" She groaned, as she held him to her firmly. 

He growled. There was no part of him that didn't want her. The side of him Section had programmed couldn't even deny her; even it felt an earth-quakingly deep need for her. . . . She was the key to his sanity--to any sense of comfort he would ever know. 

She was also highly, highly addictive. He moved to the other side of her neck and began tormenting the tender spots on her flesh here. He bit at one roughly, as she trembled, whimpering, against him--holding him very close. 

He growled and ran his teeth back over her. "Tell me you want me," he ordered, before he began to torment her again. 

"Ohhhh!" She held him even more firmly to her, begging for more. "Yes, Michael--more!" His teeth moved to a new spot to tantalize her flesh. "Ohhhhh," she groaned. "Yes. . . . Yes." 

She was utterly lost to his spell--was in desperate, aching need for him. She was moaning, as he moved down to torment the tender spot between her shoulder and neck. 

"Ohhhhh," she moaned. "Michael, yes." She panted. "God, you feel so good." She paused to groan for a second. "Please . . . please . . . make me the object of your fantasy. Please." He bit her more roughly, to her screaming groan. "Yes! Ask for anything," she moaned. "I want to please you." 

He ran his teeth over the tender spot, as she shuddered against him. He pulled back to look at her before running his tongue over her lips--nipping at her slightly. "You're sure?" 

"Yeeeesssss," she moaned. 

He smiled ferally at her and set her back a little from himself. "Good." He stepped away from her. "Then perform for me--show me." 

She moaned loudly and smiled at him; she loved inflaming him--loved being the object of his desires. She started by putting a few of her fingers into her mouth and suckling at them for a few seconds. Letting them leave her lips with a lick of her tongue, she then moved them down her body--stroking them down to and over her aroused breasts. 

She licked her lips and took her nipples in her fingers. She squeezed them and closed her eyes in response. "Mmmm," she moaned, as she refocused on him. "It's not as good as you." She licked her lips again at the look of feral desire on his face and gave a moaning laugh. "Mmmm, I like it best when you take them in your mouth, when you show me all of your rough love." 

A feral growl broke from him. His eyes were focused on her hands, which were twisting and tormenting the aroused little buds into aching need. 

He was loving this vicarious arousal of her. "Get rougher," he instructed. 

She twisted her nipples more soundly, as a heated desire flooded through her blood. She moaned, her head back. 

God, she was erotic. He traced down from her beautiful, upturned face; down the long line of her throat, which ached for his lips; over the soft mounds she held in her hands, her fingers tormenting the aching, pink tips in just the way he knew she liked. He growled and continued his visual descent--down the soft curve of her stomach . . . to the waistband of her pants. 

"Take them off," his voice shuddered through her. She looked back up at him and smiled seductively. His face was still placid, but his eyes were *wild*. His hands clenched at his sides to keep from following the pattern he had asked her to run on her over himself. His arousal beat furiously against the confines of the tight mission pants. 

She did as he asked. Not only did she want to--was adoring being the object of his insane desire, but she was also convinced that they needed to get him out of those pants soon to avoid injuring him. . . . And she had *far* better uses for him than that. 

Her hands ran slowly down her body, as his eyes followed, transfixed. They came to rest on the closure of her pants, and she slowly unbuttoned and unzipped them. 

His breathing was incredibly ragged, as he watched her lower the pants over her hips. She licked her lips, at his delicious look of desire, but he was far too focused elsewhere to notice. 

When she finally dropped the pants to the floor and stepped out of them--naked to his volcanic gaze, he growled deeply and ran his eyes back to hers. "You're mine," he stated with authority. 

She smiled wickedly back at him, licking her lips, as she approached him. "I'm under your command, right . . . my husband?" 

He let out a vicious growl, as she reached him, and pulled her into a deep, arousing kiss. He needed her so desperately, on every level. This little fantasy they were acting out made his arousal pound through his blood. There had been *so* many missions where he thought he would lose her; after every one, he had wanted to take her like this, to remind her that he would *always* need her. 

He held her toward him, pressing his arousal against her hungry depths. She whimpered. His skin was ablaze next to hers--was singeing her in his need. He was feverish with desire. 

Oh God, she wanted him. There had been too many times during missions when she had wondered whether he even gave a damn--when she had even felt certain that he would happily sacrifice her to ensure Section's end game. To feel his raw, intense need enveloping her now--burning her--healed something in her, let her know that she hadn't imagined their connection. . . . She hadn't been fooling herself. 

**************** 

Her hands ran down his back to trace over his curves again, holding him to her. He growled and pulled back from the kiss to focus on her, the growl reverberating in his throat. "You're following *my* commands," he reminded her. 

She licked her lips, suggestively. "Then give me the order I want." 

He growled, not responding yet to the suggestion he knew she was making. . . . God, he wanted this, but some only half-repressed memory of what it was like to be the one on his knees seemed to come back to him every time she suggested it. 

As much as he loved "commanding" her, here, it was a game--and that was all he wanted it to be. He **never** wanted her to feel she had to serve him. 

She didn't, though. She wasn't working out of duty, only out of need. She adored pleasing him, *loved* his groans of pleasure, as she aroused his hard length in her mouth. She loved the strong beat of him there--the feel of him in her hand. She loved the way his hands never forced but always encouraged her, stroking sensually through her hair. She could feel every beat of his heart, as his desire and love for her coursed through his shaft. . . . She would never stop wanting him. 

He growled, seeing all of this in her eyes. That she wanted him so much made him *insane*. His arousal grew still further in its now-painful confines. If he didn't release it soon . . . 

She licked her lips again, taunting him--tempting him. She wanted to play out this fantasy again. She had *no* problem being subservient to him here, because she never *really* was. He was always more concerned about her pleasure than his own. No matter how rough they got, he always wanted to join with her, not to take from her. . . . Sometimes, in fact, he wouldn't take enough, so she had to goad him. 

Now, apparently, was one of those times. She licked her lips enticingly again. "Let me please you, Michael." Her hand ran lightly over his too-tightly-confined arousal. "Let me serve you." She leaned in to kiss away a single tear on his cheek. "Command me," she whispered at his ear. 

He took in a breath. He hadn't even realized he was crying. He needed her *so* deeply. 

She leaned back to look at him again, and he saw that she was absolutely sincere in her desire. She wanted this--wanted to continue this fantasy desperately. 

A growl rumbled from him. "What do you want to give me?" he asked, his eyes alight. 

She smiled seductively, seeing that she had won. She led him over to the mattress, her fingers snagged through his belt loops. She backed toward it, keeping up her inviting eye contact all the way. He growled at her, and she smiled more deeply. 

When her heels hit the edge of the mattress, she knelt on it--in front of him. His breathing spiked precariously. She pulled him toward her and placed her mouth over his navel, running her tongue inside it, as she suckled on it. He growled. 

She moved her hands down to the closure on his pants, and he moaned, pulling her back. He set her back from him a little, his eyes commanding. "Watch," he ordered. Then, he reminded her just how arousing it was to have your lover slowly reveal himself to your gaze. 

Her breathing grew shallow, as her eyes focused on his still-hidden shaft, which was *so* close to her. He slowly unbuttoned his pants and slid the zipper carefully over his aroused length--his eyes focused on her intense look--her absolute focus on the coming view. 

He smiled and then finally released his aching length--which truly was almost in pain from its prolonged confinement. . . . It was one of the reasons he wore the mission pants around her, actually; they reminded him immediately and painfully that he couldn't afford to be distracted--they made him pay if he allowed himself to feel his aching desire for his heart's wife. 

He lowered his pants and disposed of them. She moaned and leaned toward him, putting her hands on his hips to pull him toward her. "Poor baby," she seemed to be talking directly to his shaft--sensing its ache from its prolonged confinement, "you've been hurt." She placed a single kiss near his base, and his entire body trembled in anticipation. "Here," she ran a long lick up his length, "let me heal you." She did it again. "We'll make it all better." She ran a circle around the tip before tracing her tongue back along him again. 

Michael moaned. Nikita talking baby talk to his painfully-aroused shaft was an *oddly*-erotic sight. 

Of course, what was even more arousing was every stroke of her talented tongue. His hard length was so sensitized from its prolonged confinement that every soft stroke seemed to barrel through him, made him tremble with desire for her. 

He was bracing himself with his hands on her head. Her hot mouth felt *so good* against him. She was so teasing--so light, but the results were nearly cataclysmic. 

He truly didn't think it was possible for him to get any more aroused. She proved him wrong, however, by moving to run her tongue over the hardened balls of his sac. He moaned aloud, his arousal singing through him--hardening him further. 

He wasn't sure he could stand up much longer. . . . He also wasn't sure that he could hold on much longer. She was just *so* damn arousing. 

He didn't want it to happen like this, though, didn't want her on her knees. He wanted to be able to please her, while she gave him the cataclysmic fulfillment she had so often proven herself capable of. 

He resumed his command, pulling her back from him before she got a chance to enclose him in her wonderful mouth. His eyes smiled heatedly at her, while his face kept up their game--reminded her again that his blank exterior *was* just a mask. "No. Not yet." She looked at him curiously. "Lie down," he ordered. "Lie down on the seat." 

She smiled at him for keeping up their fantasy. "Won't we roll off?" 

He growled quietly at her. "We'll be careful." His eyes burned their devotion at her. "And we have a very cautious driver." She smiled again and did as he asked. 

He was still towering above her, his arousal bobbing insanely for her. God, she wanted to feel it in her mouth. "Michael," she pleaded. She licked her lips slightly. 

His eyes burned at her. "Yes, Nikita, precisely." 

She groaned, suddenly understanding what he wanted. She shifted a little on the mattress, squirming a bit in need. 

His eyes smiled down at her, although his face was still blank. "Move your hair," he ordered. 

She did, tucking it under her back to have it well out of the way of his knees. "Please, yes," she moaned. 

He groaned deeply in return. She was *so* beautiful, as she lay before him. Her body was made to be loved--to be adored by a lover with enough skill to constantly find new ways to please her. . . . And, whatever else--however little he might think of himself in many areas, in this one he was certain of his capabilities. . . . And he was determined to use them all now to their fullest, most devastating effect. 

She licked her lips at him again, and his arousal bobbed even more furiously in its need for her. "You're not very patient," he noted calmly. 

"No, I'm not," she agreed. She licked her lips at him again and spread her legs to welcome his mouth. "Mmmm, I want you now." 

"Temptress," he thought . . . and such an amazingly beautiful one. 

"Very well," he acquiesced, in apparent equilibrium. He knelt near her head and leaned down to kiss her deeply. She moaned in it and tried to follow him, as he pulled back. 

"Michael, yes," she moaned. He growled at her and then moved forward to place one knee on either side of her head. 

"Mmmm," he heard her moan, as he moved himself further down her body. He ran his tongue lightly down her, as he moved toward her parted thighs and the sweet treasure they hid; she moaned beneath him. 

"Not yet," he said simply--sensing and stopping her intentions, to her whimper of disappointment. He felt her puff her hot breath over him instead, and he groaned, his arousal twitching near her mouth. 

She was pleased--both by the groan and by the way his heavy arousal seemed to call out for her. "Mmmm," she moaned in anticipation. 

He shuddered a little, as he positioned himself at her depths. She was parted to his view--the gorgeous flower of her arousal filling him with her heady, beautiful scent--begging to be tasted. He gave her an instinctive lap, and she retaliated with a quick lick to the head of his shaft. 

They both moaned--those small moves making them *desperate* for more. Michael held her open with his fingers and ran his tongue in little circles just inside her entrance before moving back to lick devotedly over her tender bud. Nikita moaned loudly and began running the tip of her tongue in teasing circles over the head of his shaft; her finger ran lightly up the vein on the back of it--arousing him further. 

He moaned and took her bud in his mouth to suckle it strongly, stroking over it with his tongue. She whimpered and took the head of his shaft in hers, suckling him, as well. 

God, this felt *so* good--for both of them. Their arousal seemed endless--seemed to stem from everything: from their lover's perfect technique on their most delicate parts and their own fulfilled need to taste each other, to the pleasure they knew they gave one another--echoed in the deep moans they each emitted. 

Suddenly, though, she needed more; she needed to touch him. She brought her hands up to stroke him. One enclosed his shaft--ran along it in long, soft strokes; the other caressed his tightened sac, loving the feel of it in her perfect grasp. Because of their positions, the angle was a bit odd for her, but she was *more* than willing to be accommodating. 

He moaned more loudly and began running the tip of his tongue against her bud in short little licking jabs. He heard her moan loudly in response, her hips bucking at him. 

He growled, knowing she was close. He wanted to bring her to fulfillment here before delving inside her; he wanted to please her in every way there was. 

His mouth subsumed her tender flesh again--his tongue tormenting it roughly, pressing on it in just the way she needed most. His fingers, too, played just around the entrance to her depths. 

She moaned and echoed his treatment of her on the tip of his shaft--to his loud, aroused moan. Her hands moved more strongly over him. 

He groaned and sped up his devotions to her, his tongue becoming fierce in its attentions to her quivering bud. She started letting out little whimpering moans, as her hips thrust at him, wanting more; her whole core felt alive in its need--was crying out for him. Her mouth suckled his tip more strongly, as her hand moved faster. 

He gave her what she needed by trebling his efforts to her needy bud, while running three fingers deep into her to hit an achingly-aroused spot inside her. 

Her scream was lost in her throat, as her depths closed on his fingers. Everything inside her seemed to be trembling in pleasure--in need. 

She was quaking with the combined fulfillment and arousal he had given her, her hips thrusting at him. To try to keep her sanity, she began an intense rhythm back and forth along him. She needed him in her--needed to feel his strong, pulsing arousal in her mouth--in her hand. She needed to give him the sort of release he had just given her. 

He moaned, as she began her intensified rhythm on him. She felt so *good* when she took him in her warm, tight mouth; she fulfilled him *so* completely with her need for him. 

He growled deep in his throat and pulled his fingers from her, so that he could begin to explore her with his tongue. His hands held onto her hips to give him better access to her. 

She moaned, as his tongue ran deep inside her. . . . God, he felt *so* good. He could please her in *so* many ways--was so adept at it. She closed her hand around him even more perfectly in her rhythm. 

He moaned. . . . God, he needed more of her. He pushed her legs up--the front of her thighs coming to rest on his back, and he rested himself on his elbows, his hands at her hips. 

She gave short, whimpering moans, as his tongue stroked her more deeply. She sped up on him--her mouth and hand becoming even more arousingly tight. She moaned in the back of her throat with each move. 

He growled again and sped up on her as well--hitting a deep, inner spot with each thrust of his tongue. The angle at which she was stroking along his shaft was so damned arousing; his whole length ached with the need to be loved by her. . . . She was *so* perfect. 

He was hitting her deep with his tongue--every stroke perfection. She was echoing his work on his shaft, was stroking along him with just the right pressure--her mouth tight around him. 

They were both so close. Their tender parts ached with the nearness of their coming release--every tiny fragment of them seemed alive with its approach. 

Suddenly, though, it just wasn't enough--for either of them. As much as they loved this, as talented as both of their mouths were, they needed more. . . . They needed to truly join their souls. 

They both felt it, both understood it. They released each other, with goodbye licks, and sat up--facing one another. Their eyes were needy and desperate. 

Michael took her hand and led them both to their feet, before she followed quickly along behind him to the other room. He pulled the chair away from the wall, where he had placed it in his passion a few days ago, and sat down in it. 

She came to straddle over him, looking down at him with such devotion. He moaned at her gaze. His hand reached up to stroke over her cheek. "`Kita," he breathed, "my sweet soul." There were tears in his eyes. "I love you." 

She moaned and positioned herself over him. "Michael, my love," she moaned. 

His hands took hold of her hips, and they both began to lower her slowly onto his huge, throbbing length. She almost broke their devoted look to close her eyes at the incredible feeling of him entering her but stopped herself at his unspoken plea to keep contact. 

Their breath was shuddering, as they began to bring her more fully down on him. Her hands held his shoulders tightly, as she began to shake a little from the intense sensation. Her depths were still so incredibly aroused from his devotions to them; the amazing way he stretched her taut with his perfect entry--the way he connected their aching devotion to each other made her tremble with need and near fulfillment. 

Her hands came up to hold onto his head. "Ahhh! Ahhh!" she cried, shaking above him. 

His eyes were completely devoted to her--his look tearful in its soul-filled need. She had almost covered him completely--had almost taken him entirely into herself. His shaft throbbed insanely in its desire. 

He was *so* close; they both were. Their previous, erotic attentions to each other had left them desperately clinging to the edge of sanity--their bodies taut with their coming release. The feeling sang through them, making them shake. 

He paused her about an inch and a half from completion. They were both caught utterly in each other's gaze. Their love bound them together--made their intense need even more insane. 

They both knew, too, that the next time they were in the mission van, this was what they would be thinking of--this union. Somewhere, in some spirit form, they would be making love to one another in its cold confines--would defy its brutal symbolism with an act of pure, intense spiritual connection. 

Their eyes asked and gave permission, and then his hands helped thrust her strongly down onto him--hitting her perilously deep. They both cried out with the sensation--caught entirely in each other's eyes. 

Their most tender parts began to shudder in the precursor to their release. They were both letting out little, "Mmm, mmmm," noises, as the final convulsion began to come upon them. Their areas of arousal were so achingly sensitized it was almost unbearable; their stomachs were knotted tightly in need. 

They were both moaning. Then, in complete unison--never breaking their loving, overwhelmed gaze--they gave one another's intense arousal five slow, rotating strokes--each one sparking their towering desire into even greater, trembling life. On the final one, they both thrust at each other--incredibly deeply--twice and held onto one another, as the final assault on their senses took hold. 

They were giving grunting, gasping groans--deep-voiced "uhh"s. They ground themselves at each other once more and then screamed, as they lost all hold on sanity--their hips bucking at each other in release. 

Michael's mission face was long gone. Both of them were screaming--were watching one another as though they were looking into a mirror, were watching the other part of themselves, as the bliss of their shared release took hold. 

His warmth was barreling into her--was hitting her deep, while her achingly-fulfilled walls closed tightly around his incredibly-satisfied shaft. The passion they saw on one another's faces simply increased their own pleasure. 

They stayed like that--spellbound--for a minute or so before the need to be closer overwhelmed them. They pulled each other almost dangerously close and sealed their love in a deep, intense, soul-binding kiss, their whimpers breaking through it. 

They held one another in that passionate embrace for some time, sharing every bit of their love and ecstasy. They seemed to be swimming in it--it seemed to float around them. The light of their love flowed from them to light up the room--bringing them together into the whole they always wanted to be. 

They had lost any sense of time in the kiss. All they could sense was each other and their shared, soul-deep bond. 

It was a beautiful experience, one that neither of them could ever have words to express. They seemed to float together in the kiss, blending them into a perfect whole. 

What seemed like--but fortunately for them, today, was not--hours later, they finally emerged from the kiss to look at one another. They didn't really have anything they could say; anything they could have, after all, would have been utterly insufficient. 

The truth of it, though, was simple and was one they both fully understood: their souls belonged to each other. . . . They were one. 

************* 

They stayed in the chair for some time after that--holding each other close, their cheeks resting against one another's. The sensations of their last union had been incredibly intense. . . . They were finding it very hard to come down. 

In fact, they were discovering, more and more, that every union they were sharing during this time seemed to be binding them further and further together. They were finding it hard to imagine being separated once again by Section's machinations, . . . but both of them knew that was, unfortunately, the most likely scenario for their future. 

They sighed, feeling each other's fears coursing through them, and held one another more closely. They weren't really sure how to return, weren't certain how they would survive it. The last week, after all, had bound them into a single soul. . . . Neither one knew how they could withstand any separation. 

Their cheeks rubbed against one another's, as they sighed. They both hated that their lovemaking was too often followed by fear and sorrow--emotions which had nothing to do with the act itself but which were, instead, caused by their painful position within the organization that owned them. 

Nikita sighed again. "Yes?" Michael asked quietly. 

"Nothing," she sighed once more. "It's nothing we can change." 

He nodded, understanding, and kissed her cheek. "I know. . . . I'm sorry," he added quietly. 

She kissed his shoulder. "Don't be. You don't run Section." She shook her head. "It's not your fault." 

"Yes," he agreed, "but . . ." 

"No," she said softly, leaning back to look at him. She shrugged. "It's not either of our faults." 

He nodded slightly. He could have argued with her, but he knew she was mostly right. His hand stroked her cheek. "I love you," he told her once more. He knew that he might never repeat this essential truth again after their time here was over, but he was determined that she would have heard it enough by then to believe it. 

She turned her head to kiss his palm. Her eyes were serious when she looked back at him. "And I love you." 

He smiled and leaned forward to kiss her softly. They both allowed themselves, then, to deepen and get lost in the sensation for a minute, needing the contact. 

He kissed gently at her lips again, as he finally released her. His eyes probed her softly. "You won't forget this time, `Kita?" He shook his head. "You won't forget how much I love you?" He was stroking her cheek tenderly. 

She leaned forward to kiss him lightly before leaning back. Her eyes were a little sad; she knew she had to answer him truthfully. "I'll never forget this week, Michael." She shook her head. "That's not even a possibility." 

She swallowed a little, though, coming to her harder truths--her eyes unhappy. "But--if you hurt me again," they both knew it was really "when," "I'll probably end up convincing myself that it was all a dream." 

He closed his eyes sadly at her words. He knew she was right, and he also knew--to his despair--that the time would come when he *would* hurt her again. "I'm sorry, `Kita." 

She kissed his cheek lightly. "No, Michael." He looked back up at her. "Don't apologize." Her smile got a little resignedly ironic, and she leaned in to kiss him again. "Not yet." 

He swallowed. "Underneath it all, `Kita, you will love me?" He needed her confirmation that her anger wouldn't be all there was. 

She nodded. "Yes." Her eyes grew a little harder. "But that's *not* an excuse--or permission to hurt me again." 

He nodded, as well. He knew that--for now. Once he was tested, though, he was sadly certain, all bets would be off. 

She leaned forward to hug him once more, resting her cheek against his. "No. Let's not think about that now," she begged, understanding his thoughts. 

He held her close for a moment, kissing her cheek, but pulled her back finally to look at her. "It's my last chance to know some things, `Kita," he explained, at her look. She nodded, understanding, and he continued, swallowing heavily. "I was thinking about the Van Vactor mission . . . about how it ended," he added softly. 

Her eyes were suddenly overwhelmed by pain, remembering how she had lost her innocence that day--how it had disappeared as she pulled the trigger to save his life. He continued with his question. "Why didn't you shoot me?" He shook his head. "You had the perfect chance--you could have done it so easily." He shook his head once more. "Part of me's never understood why you didn't." 

She closed her eyes and leaned her head forward. He took hold of it to move her forehead to his lips, placing a light kiss there, before he rested her on his chin. "Yes?" he prompted softly. 

"I couldn't," she replied quietly. 

"Why not?" 

She shook her head. "I don't know." It certainly wasn't for any logical reason, by that point. "I just couldn't hurt you." 

"Even though I'd hurt you." 

"Yes," she agreed. 

He lifted her head up to focus on her eyes. "I love you, `Kita," he swallowed, "but there are times I wish you had--wish you'd saved me from all the pain I caused you later." He shook his head. "I'd already done you enough damage by then." He sighed deeply. "And I hadn't even started yet." 

She closed her eyes for a second. He had brought back a question of her own about that day. "Michael," she began, before refocusing on him sadly, "why didn't *you* shoot *me*?" She shook her head. "You didn't know I wouldn't kill you." 

He shook his head a little in response. "No, I wasn't sure." 

Her eyes focused on him deeply, trying to understand. "You wanted me to?" 

He thought about it and shook his head again. "No, not entirely--not then." He swallowed heavily. "That was more what I felt once it was over. Then . . . I suppose I just wanted to believe that you wouldn't." He sighed. "As much as I'd hurt you, I wanted to believe that you wouldn't hate me--that you wouldn't become evil . . . that you wouldn't become me in return." 

She sighed and rested her forehead back on his chin. She just didn't know what to say in response. 

"I know it's selfish," he went on. "I know you can't forgive me." He sighed. "But I," he swallowed slightly, his voice becoming softer, "I don't want you to lose yourself." He shook his head a little. "I don't want you to become vengeful." 

She sighed as well and kissed the underside of his throat before resting her head back in its previous position. She understood--they both did. She grew angry--grew furious--at times, but she never went to lengths to try to exact revenge. As much as she needed explanations, needed apologies, even needed repentance from him--from time to time, she never once truly wanted to cause him pain. . . . Occasional jealousy, yes--but not pain. 

Her mind ran to another track from that last thought. She looked up at him, and he saw that she was going to bring up yet another painful detail from their past. "Why did you act like such a bastard over Gray and Chandler? You were the one who set me up in both relationships." 

He closed his eyes briefly to hold back his pain. "I know." He looked back at her. "That's why I was so jealous." 

She focused on him curiously and waited for him to continue. He sighed deeply. "I helped set you up in both relationships, yes, but I didn't want you become attached to either of them." 

Her eyes seemed a little upset. "Michael . . ." she began. 

He shook his head, reading her thoughts. "No, I didn't want you to prostitute yourself to them." He looked away from her, as he thought back. "I thought they could both be handled without taking it that far." 

"But you *did* order me to go back to Chandler--to do `whatever it takes.'" Her eyes were a little angry; the discussion was stirring up all her old pain. 

"Yes," he agreed, refocusing on her--his eyes tearing. She looked deep into him, her eyes hard, and waited for him to go on. He took a deep breath. "I didn't *want* you to go back," his eyes focused intensely on hers to ensure that she understood. "I didn't want you to *have* to." He shook his head. "Operations was still suspicious of you, though--he still wasn't sure you could do the job." 

Her eyes showed her comprehension but were no less angry. "So you did it to save my life again?" 

He nodded. "Yes." 

She shook her head. "It wouldn't have been worth it, if I'd had to sleep with him." She was suddenly grateful that Chandler had found out about her mission so quickly; being taken hostage was a *blessing* in comparison. 

He closed his eyes. "I'm sorry, Nikita." He sighed. . . . God, it was exactly what he feared in himself--what he feared he would do to her, even more ruthlessly, in the future. 

She closed her eyes as well and put her head next to his--laying their temples together. What could she say? His was a fear that she shared completely. 

He was torn between a dozen different emotions. Part of him wanted to give up--wanted to tell her to go ahead and leave him, that he didn't deserve the sort of love she gave. Part of him, though, wanted to cling to her--to hold her desperately close, to beg for her forgiveness while pretending--*praying* that he would never repeat his grave offenses of her again. 

Along with this, too, part of his soul wanted to make love to her--wanted to try to cleanse them both of all of his degradations of her, past and future, through an act of spiritual purification, of spiritual union. He was beginning to beat within her again, although they both tried to ignore it. 

He didn't even know where to begin to sort through his emotions; he knew he certainly couldn't do it in one night, though. He tried, therefore, to explain some of how he felt to her--to begin to apologize for some of his actions. 

His arms encircled her even more tightly, stroking along her back, as he held her to him. He rubbed his chin on her shoulder. "I love you, Nikita." He sighed. "But I know that can't make up for all I've done to you--for all the ways I've hurt you; I *know* those words can't make it okay." 

She closed her eyes more tightly and buried her face in his neck. He kissed her cheek, as he continued. "No apology I could ever give would be enough--*could* be enough. There's no way, I know, that I could ever show my true remorse except by *never* repeating my actions again." 

He swallowed heavily. "I wish I could say truthfully that that's the course I'll take--that I'll never make you unhappy again." He sighed once more and kissed her shoulder. "But as much--as terribly much--as I want that," he shook his head, "I know that to promise it would be a lie." 

************ 

He felt her tears begin to roll down his neck, and he closed his eyes tightly, shedding his own; he was throbbing more steadily inside her. "I know that my love isn't perfect--frequently isn't even good; I know I'm no prize--that I'm usually far more trouble than I could ever be worth." He felt her smile against his skin, and she kissed his neck; he sighed out a half-groan, as he went on--his hand stroking over her hair. "But even my worst torments of you are brought on by my love. . . . It's just that my love is very, very imperfect." 

She shook her head against him, giving him another light kiss, and leaned back to look at him. "No, Michael, you're wrong. Your love for me *is* perfect--is beautiful." He met her eyes, not following her train of thought. "It's your *possession* of me which hurts me so often," she explained. 

He closed his eyes briefly and nodded. She was right. He returned his focus to her. "I don't know how to separate them, though." His eyes pleaded with her to understand. "I don't know how to *not* be greedy with you." 

He shook his head, as she started to speak, and leaned forward to kiss her temple. "No, let me finish," he said, refocusing on her. "My need for you courses through me." His hand stroked her cheek. "Sometimes it's so great, I feel like it will make me insane--I can feel it lowering my emotions to an animalistic level." 

His eyes connected with hers, begging her to understand. "I need you so fiercely that I want to take you like a lion possessing its mate; I want to make you mine like a stallion riding its mare." 

His shaft was now very much alive and in need in her; she groaned, becoming distracted by her increasing desire. Her hips shifted unconsciously on him a little--which only made the problem bigger. 

He groaned and thrust his hips at her slightly--trying to restrain himself but in *such* need. His hand stroked her cheek more rhythmically, as they both groaned. "I want so much with you--want to be able to give you so many things." 

His hips thrust at her a little more, unconsciously, and she moaned. He could see the desperate need in her eyes, and his desire began to break him. He caught her lips fiercely for a second--commanding her in a deep, possessive kiss, while she moaned and held him in it. Their tears still flowed silently. 

She was moaning insanely. They weren't even *close* to resolving this issue, but part of her knew that they never would be--not, at least, while there was a Section. They had trained Michael to be ruthless and animalistic, and the part of him they had conquered was incapable of expressing his love for her in any other way. 

She was returning the kiss in full--was groaning as she let her need take hold of her. She was holding his head to her, was pressing their lips almost painfully together. As little as she liked Section's animalistic treatment of its operatives--of the world in general--there was a part of her which was entirely feral, which begged for her mate--which needed him without concerns for safety, tenderness, or consequences. 

For her, though, this part of her didn't extend into her everyday treatment of him. She didn't want to see him hurt--physically *or* emotionally; she wasn't willing to consistently sacrifice bits of his soul for his physical well-being. 

She knew, though, that she couldn't remold his approach to her in a single week. Maybe--if they were free of Section, if they were able to approach each other the way they had for the last week all the time, then they could work together to change his approach to her. 

Of course, though, without Section, his whole need to manipulate her might disappear, as well. It was what they needed, really, to make their relationship sane, . . . but--of course--it was *not* something they were going to get, . . . not anytime in the foreseeable future anyway. 

He was giving shallow little thrusts into her--unable to restrain himself. She felt too good--they both wanted each other too much. He just couldn't go on quietly discussing their relationship when he felt a savage need to mate with her. 

She wasn't making him any more likely to change his mind, either, with the way her walls were grabbing onto him with each little thrust. She needed him now--needed her mate. She needed to remember that--like zoo animals--they might be forced to mate with others occasionally, but they would *always* gravitate back to each other, when given half a chance. 

He groaned, as he pulled back from the drugging kiss to refocus on her. They weren't going to finish this conversation right now, but--while they had reached no real resolution, just yet, he *could* answer a few of her questions further. 

His eyes burned his desire into her. "It didn't matter to my jealousy that I had set you up on the missions with Wellman and Chandler; they were targets, innocent or otherwise." He took hold of her hips, well aware that he had her total permission, and pulled her back from him a little before reconnecting her with him roughly--deeply, the head of his shaft grinding hard into her tender depths; he growled, as she cried out in need at the incredible sensation. "I," he repeated the action more brutally, "am your *mate*." 

"Michael, yes," she moaned. She had given up entirely on intellectual conversation. 

He kept up his pattern roughly, his breathing incredibly ragged. His eyes burned savagely into her. "The day I came by your apartment to see that you had been making love to Wellman, I wanted to kill him. I wanted to back you into a corner and take you roughly--wanted to remind you of what a *real* man is like." He couldn't help it; he had never liked the man. He stroked her more roughly onto his thick shaft. 

She groaned in response. Her hands were claws on his shoulders. "Harder," she ordered, as she began riding him more seriously. As righteously furious as she had been at him for his interference in her relationship with Gray, the whole affair had never really been about her feelings for the diffident architect; it had *always* been about her pain over Michael's treatment of her during the whole situation with Eric. 

They were giving long, deep thrusts onto one another, his hands guiding her roughly over him; his large shaft was beating intensely against a needy inner spot, making her want him all the more. Her hands held on to his neck, as she rode over him. Their eyes captured each other--possessing one another--claiming each other's souls. 

The feeling was incredible; they were both lost in it--were lost in the depths of one another's eyes. They could see there the mixture of animalistic desire and tender love that they each felt so intensely in themselves. 

They were unspeakably ravenous for each other. They growled and pulled one another into another deep, feral kiss, as their rough rhythm trebled. 

There were other truths about her relationship with Gray, of course, that she wanted to tell him, but she just wasn't capable, at the moment, of thinking logically enough to explain them. . . . And, right now, he really didn't care whether she ever did. 

He ran his teeth lightly over her bottom lip, as he let her go with a growl--leaning his head back to look at her. His hands maneuvered her hips more roughly. "I am your *only* mate." He pounded her brutally onto him. "You will *never* respond to anyone else," he ordered. 

She groaned and rode him more ferally, moaning. "Yes, Michael." 

He was slamming her down on him insanely, as he growled. "God, I love you," his voice rumbled heatedly at her. She moaned, and his hands sunk deeply into the soft flesh of her curves, maneuvering her roughly, tightly over him. "You're the most erotic damn woman ever born." He pulled her achingly-aroused depths over his huge shaft more brutally. "You were made to be possessed by your mate--to be possessed by *me*." 

He was grinding deep into her with each stroke, while she gave moaning cries. His eyes burned a scalding, sensual fire at her. "You might as well accept it," his eyes took on a wilder--more dangerous--light, "or I might have to prove it to you even more roughly." 

His verbal taunt was effective; she screamed in desire. "Yes, Michael, yes!" She groaned; her nails ran strong lines into his back. "Show me! Prove it to me!" 

Her eyes were insane for him. He growled and stood up with her wrapped tightly around him. "Prepare yourself to learn," he warned heatedly. 

She screamed, as his hips continued his brutal pattern. She was riding almost solely on his sweet length. 

He bobbed her up and down on him--holding onto her curves, while her hands clung to his back. She was giving insane groans of need, as he moved their hips roughly against each other. 

He didn't move them far, though. He came to rest on the hard floor--kneeling there, before lowering her curves down to it. She moaned loudly. 

His hands ran up to cushion her head, as it came to rest on the floor; there was nothing else around to turn into a makeshift pillow. He was crushing her body sensually beneath his--his eyes burning ferally at her, while she moaned--her eyes begging for more. 

He could feel her entire, soft length beneath him, and it spurred his desire into an incredibly ruthless, volcanic need. His hips rolled his huge shaft repeatedly--brutally into her tight, silken depths, as her legs continued to wrap around him like a vise, keeping him deep inside her. He was keeping up his constant, commanding gaze. 

Their look burned their desire into each other--branded one another's souls. It was an absolutely searing experience, but it was one they trusted each other enough to willingly--happily welcome. 

He could see the need in her eyes--her insane desire for him, and he sped up his deep thrusts. He wanted to give her a release so intense that it threatened her sense of place and self. 

His smile was feral, his words scalding and crude, as he ruthlessly began forcing her into a shattering climax. "I love fucking you," he growled. He rode her more deeply, while she gave little screaming moans, her eyes utterly devoted to him--desperately overwhelmed. "You take me in *just* the way I need." 

To prove his point, he rode her harder, as she moaned insanely, caught in his commanding look. "When I stroke into you, I know what my body was made for--I understand everything." 

He leaned further over her--his shaft riding her even more deeply, as her screams grew louder. "Ah! Yes . . . Michael!" she moaned. Her hips kept up his pattern, needing even more of him. 

He growled and rode her in short, deep stabbing thrusts--brutally arousing her unspeakably needy core. He was half an inch from her face--his eyes boring sensually into her, his breath scalding her lips. "You're the most erotic damn thing God ever created." His thrusts got much rougher. "And he created you just for me." 

She was whimpering desperately, her look lost in his. She had completely lost hold of any sense of reality outside of him. 

He growled at her, his thrusts unspeakably brutal in her sensitive core. "I understood my whole life the first time I made love to you; I knew why I'd been born." His ruthless strokes were overwhelming her--were taking her outside of her own body, displacing her sense of time and place. "I was made to love you; I was recruited into Section so I could be trained in every sexual technique--so I could please you, could fulfill you brutally." 

She moaned loudly; his reworking of his whole life with her as its purpose was overwhelming her. His strokes were rough and warm--far inside her; she sensed them all as a spiraling ball of sensations--as a light in her deepest core. She whimpered at him. 

He smiled ferally again, a growl reverberating from him. "I was molded by God to be your lover, Nikita." His strokes moved even further into her--causing sensations that made her quake; he knew she was experiencing every huge inch of him--that she felt him to the last minute detail. "I was made just large enough to make every sensation in you tremble." He growled, as he felt her getting closer to her release. "I was molded to make you come." 

She closed her eyes--her head hanging back into his hands. She was moaning desperately. She knew that--even though his words were meant to provoke, they were also absolutely true. 

He traced his teeth in small bites down her exposed neck, while she whimpered--half a second from orgasm. Her depths were closed tightly around him--were making him burn with need. He needed her release so desperately now that he felt as though his sanity depended on it. 

She whimpered, holding his head to her. "Mi-chael," she just managed to get out. She loved him so much. Her body sang in her need for him. 

"Yes," he whispered. He bit a tender spot on her neck--to her groan--and then moved to her ear. 

She whimpered more loudly, as his thrusts became even shorter--deep little stabs. Her hands clawed at his shoulders, as she held him to her. 

He ran his tongue around the outline of her ear, as she whimpered desperately beneath him. The gentle sensation--combined with the wonderful ruthlessness of the rest of their union--was overloading her ability to comprehend her own emotions. All she could do was float through and experience them. 

He kissed her ear, understanding where she was. He gave her the final push she needed into ecstasy--the final confirmation her soul craved. "I love you, Nikita," he whispered in a hot breath. 

Almost at the same time he voiced it, she came. She was trembling and flowing all along him--her body a fluid mass of pleasure--rippling along his skin. 

"Mmm," he groaned. "Yes." 

She couldn't even make any sound, beyond a few, desperate little gasps and tiny cries. She felt re-formed, remolded; she was whole again because of him. . . . *Nothing* could ever feel better than this. 

Her body quaked beneath him, as small whimpers escaped her. She felt like she was made from liquid, trembling fulfillment. She buried her face in his neck, as she climaxed with incredible, nonverbal strength. 

He held her tightly to him, as her depths rippled intensely around him. "Mmmm," he moaned. She felt *so* good. 

He couldn't come yet, though. He still wanted more of her. He kissed her face tenderly. "Yes, my `Kita." He kissed her again, as she trembled, her orgasm racking her. "Yes, my sweet wife." They were leaning up a little, clinging to each other. "Ssh . . . yes, that's it," he soothed. "That's it." 

He heard a muffled whimper in her throat, and he moaned deeply, kissing her cheek again, holding her very close. "Come for me," he whispered, reveling in her every tiny, ecstatic tremor. He kissed her cheek again. "Come." 

"Oh," she finally managed to gasp out. She wasn't worried about the fact that he hadn't joined her yet; she could feel in him that he wasn't denying himself. He was simply enjoying her release for now--was experiencing it with her. Later, she knew, they would climax together. 

She was whimpering, as she held him close. She loved him so desperately. He was everything she needed in life. Love, tenderness, passion, beauty, brilliance, . . . all of them were there. She loved the connection to him of moments like this--loved that they allowed her to feel all of these needs coursing through him, that his soul was entirely open to her loving gaze. 

************** 

She was still trembling several minutes later--was simply unable to stop. He was even larger inside her now--the intimate caress of her orgasm having perilously escalated his need for her. . . . God, he felt good. 

She couldn't stop clinging to him. "`Kita," he breathed happily, loving and sharing every nuance of her pleasure with her. . . . God, he wished this could go on forever. 

"Michael," she breathed, as her senses slowly began to return to her. She kissed over his stubble-roughened cheek, her tongue running out to taste his skin. 

"Uhhhh," he moaned, the simple touch overwhelming him. His desire for her was becoming perilous, as her orgasm spiraled down. 

"Mmmm," she moaned lightly, happily. She could sense him in her completely now--was experiencing him in every pore of her body. The scent of him filled her lungs; the silken sensation of his skin against hers seemed to live in every molecule of her flesh. She felt every breath he took--increasingly quickly--as one of her own. 

"Mmmm," she moaned again. His huge shaft filled her completely, connected them to each other's souls; she felt every tiny inch of its length in her. "Ohhh," she sighed. His length twitched, and her hunger for him burned suddenly--fiercely back into life. "Michael." 

She looked back at him, as he moaned. Her pleasure had only increased his desperate need for her. He was throbbing in intense, insane desire. His eyes connected deeply with hers, begged for her permission--asked whether she were as desperate and feral as he was. 

The answer he got was a small, temptingly feral smile. She pulled his lips down to hers and took his mouth softly but intensely--her tongue stroking him into even greater desire. 

Her softness called to his ravenous need--made him want to ravish her, to erotically savage her until there was nothing left . . . all of which was *exactly* as she had intended. He kissed her back passionately, deeply--taking command, to her pleased groan. 

He began stroking into her again, as she moaned. The kiss continued, as the two mates evaluated the other's passion--little growls of need slipping through from time to time, as they discovered the incredible depths of each other's desire. 

He drew his teeth softly over her lower lip, as he pulled back to look at her at last. His eyes burned at her. "Not here," he growled. 

She wrapped her legs around him more tightly, as he began to lift them up. She moaned then, as he carried her to the bedroom, kissing her again. 

She was once again riding along his aroused shaft, as he walked--every step beating him further into her. She whimpered and began to move her hips along him--desperate for more. 

He broke the kiss to growl. "You want me?" he asked, standing near the mattress. 

"Yesssss," she moaned out. 

He smiled ferally at her and lowered them both toward the bed. When they were only a few inches from it, however, he completed their journey down in a fall, impacting her roughly onto his shaft. 

"Ohhhhh," she moaned, her eyes closed. He began stroking her again at her look, when she opened them. "Please, more," she begged. 

"Yes," he growled. He grabbed hold of her hips and began to pump himself into her in tight, rough little strokes. 

"More!" she moaned. God, she needed him. 

"Yes," he growled again, his eyes commanding her. He started moving his strokes more intensely--more lengthily--through her, running through the whole of her tight, wet depths with each one before impacting into her solidly with his shaft's huge, hard tip. 

Her head went back at the sensation. God, she wanted more. As formidable a lover as he was, there was simply never enough of him for her. "Mooooorrre," she moaned. 

He growled ferally and deeply and began to ride her harder. "*Take me*," his voice growled roughly at her. His hands were bruising her hips, as he pulled himself ruthlessly and repeatedly into her. 

"Ohhhhhh," she moaned. She looked up at him. "Yes." He impacted her more roughly, and she screamed. "Oh God, yes--More!" 

His thrusts began moving more quickly into her--impacting her depths with fierce strength. "Take it," he growled, watching her face closely. 

Her head went back again, as she moaned. "Yes! Harder!" God, she was insane for him. 

He growled again, and she looked back at him. Her hands stroked through his hair, as she growled as well. "Do it rough, Michael." She leaned up to run her teeth over his lips lightly before looking at him again. "Be a brute." She growled, her eyes alight in fierce need. "Be *my* brute." 

He growled, her words bringing out his most feral needs. He rode her, ruthlessly and deep--his hard tip impacting her brutally each time. "You want more?" His eyes burned into her. 

She growled deeply in response. "Yes!" His strokes moved deeper, growing faster and rougher. She moaned and leaned her head back. "God, yes!" 

He growled further and leaned down to bite along the tender spots on her neck--arousing her skin perilously. She held him to her, whimpering. Her legs were wrapped tightly around him, her heels digging into his soft curves to beg him for more. 

His growl turned brutal; he bit the needy spots of her neck more roughly, as he worked his way down her. His hands held her hips tightly--sunk his fingers deep into her soft flesh, as his hips rolled his hard, huge length relentlessly into her silken, aroused core. 

She leaned her head back further and moaned. Her hands were scraping little lines into his shoulders. 

He made his way down to her breast and caught her nipple fiercely in his mouth--suckling her strongly. "Ah!" she cried, leaning her head back. "Yes!" 

He began running his teeth repeatedly back and forth along her hard little nipple, as he pumped ruthlessly into her. . . . God, she felt *so* good. 

She was moaning wildly, holding him to her breast. He gave a moaning growl at it--biting at her in just the way she wanted. "Yesssss!" she moaned out. 

His hands ran up her back to hold onto her shoulders, holding her onto him deeply. His strokes got shorter--moving even further in. 

"Ahhhhhh!" she cried. Her whole body was singing with sensation. He felt so *damn* good. . . . "Michael--more!" 

He growled and released her nipple by pulling it with his teeth--his tongue stroking over the tip, until it slipped from his mouth. "Ahhhhhhh!" she cried again. 

He took hold of her hips once more and rode her fiercely. "God, I want you," he moaned at her. She looked back at him shakily. "You were made for me--were made to remind me of my purpose in life." He nipped over her lips, his eyes heated. "Pleasure." He captured her mouth deeply, as she whimpered beneath him. 

There wasn't a single part of her which wasn't tensed with the coming explosion he was taunting her with. Every cell sang in its need to connect with him--to be taken by him. 

His hips pumped a short, deep rhythm into her. She moaned through the kiss, trembling--on the edge. 

He decided to push her over by pulling back to deliver a sharp, perilously-deep, brutal thrust into the most needy spot in her intensely-aroused core. She broke the kiss to scream. "Ahhh! Michael!" Her eyes gave him possession of everything she was. 

He smiled ferally back at her. His hips pumped a very deep, short rhythm onto the tender little spot--keeping her clinging to the edge of sanity for several seconds. When her trembling had increased just enough, though, he pulled back and rammed into her with one more brutal stroke against the unspeakably aroused spot. 

She let out a loud, feral scream, and her nails ripped down his back. He was able to take in about 2 seconds of her pleasure before the wonderfully brutal sensation of being marked by her overwhelmed him, and he leaned his head back to scream. 

They both cried out their pleasure, arching into each other--grinding their most delicate points into one another. A single heartbeat later, his shaft began pumping his warmth deep into her, as she moaned and trembled under him, her depths caressing him--encouraging him in his release. 

They were both whimpering, as their union bound them, made them whole. Neither one could sense things rationally anymore. They both could only feel as one--sensing each other's pleasure as their own--all the lines between them merging. 

"Mi-chael," she barely managed to breathe out lightly. 

"`Kiiiii-taaaaaa," he moaned. His shaft beat out its final moments of release in her, as her depths experienced every wonderful little strike. 

Eventually, they both moved back in toward the other--their love calling them back into one. They held each other desperately--clung to each other, as their devotion bound them into a single whole. Their tears flowed over one another's bodies, as they each shuddered against the other. 

The feeling of it was simply too overwhelming--was almost too much. "Michael," she finally managed to breathe, "I love you." 

"`Ki-ta," he groaned. "Oh God, I love you." They were once again surrounded by light, their souls intertwining. 

Michael sighed finally, only vaguely beginning to come down. "My God, you're wonderful," he kissed her cheek again, "my wife." 

"Oh . . . Michael," she breathed in response. "Michael, my husband." Then the newly-united couple settled themselves slightly--Michael finding the blanket to pull over them, before they fell into a light--incredibly peaceful--sleep. . . . They just weren't capable of bad dreams today. ************* 

They only napped together for about an hour. Not only were both of them--from years of training and various traumatizing experiences--light sleepers, but they were also aware--a little too aware--that their wonderful time together was coming to a close. 

They held each other close, as they lay there--just up from the fringes of consciousness. They would each occasionally kiss a cheek or a strand of hair, between warm sighs. 

Night had fallen, but they couldn't afford to regret it; there just wasn't enough time for it. They were still together for now, after all. . . . Whatever came in the future, they would just have to face then. 

Michael's hand stroked over her shoulder. He kissed her hair. "I love you, `Kita," he told her again. He was *so* afraid that she would forget--that he would make her forget--once they returned. 

"Mmm, Michael," she moaned. She kissed the underside of his throat and felt his moan reverberate there. "I love you, my husband." 

"Mmmm," he moaned. "I love hearing you say that." 

She smiled against his chest. "Which part?" 

He smiled happily and kissed her hair. "All of it." 

She made a happy noise and snuggled him closer. 

He returned the tightened embrace, moaning softly. God, he loved her. She was everything beautiful that could ever be found in life. . . . Whatever the future appearances were, he would never let her go. 

He kissed her hair again, however, as his last thought rattled through his head--worrying him a bit. Although he prayed that he could avoid giving her any more pain in their future, he knew that hope was unlikely. He needed to have her remember, then, at least on some level, that--no matter what the appearances--no matter what ruthless and evil things he did, he still loved her. . . . If she remembered, then there was some hope for them, but if she forgot . . . 

He kissed her head once more, needing to evaluate her physical and emotional state. "Do you want to sleep some more?" 

"Mm, later," she replied. She realized, though, what he was trying to do with the question and looked up at him, her eyes alight. "Did you have something else in mind?" 

He smiled a little heatedly. "Want to know a fantasy of mine?" 

Her eyes got *much* brighter. "*Yes*." 

His hand stroked over her cheek, as he watched its path. "Do you know how many times you've come into my office, `Kita? Do you have any idea what having you so close to me does?" He refocused on her eyes. 

She was captured by his words. No, she really didn't know. She shook her head. 

That was the answer he feared; his eyes were a little sad. He *hated* that he had hurt her so badly that she doubted his affection--his love; he decided to explain. "My heart beats a little faster every time I see you." He sighed and shook his head a little, amending that statement. "Every time I *think* of you." 

Her eyes were caught softly in his gaze. She needed to explain her fears to him. "Sometimes I wonder whether you even notice me." 

He nodded, his look a little ironic. "I notice." 

She laughed softly; she was intrigued. "Am I a distraction?" 

His eyes burned at her. He shook his head. "No." He smiled seductively. "You're a dire temptation." 

Her eyes glowed more brightly at him. "Always?" 

The passion in his eyes was an inferno. "*Always*." 

She smiled back at him. She loved that he had confessed this. It began to answer one of her fears. "So, what did you have in mind?" her eyes shone a little wickedly. 

He growled deep in his throat. "Fulfilling my fantasy," he smiled teasingly. 

She growled a little, as well, in response. "Which is?" 

His smile was alight with love and desire. "Pushing everything off my desk, pushing you down on it, and ravishing you." 

Her growl grew louder. She *liked* this fantasy. "And anyone who comes in?" she played along. 

"I'll shoot them." 

She laughed in response, loving his--rather unique--humor. . . . God, she would miss that after today. 

She loved that he was giving her a way, too, to remember--yet again--that the brutally expressionless mask he wore to protect himself wasn't the reality. . . . She would need to understand this unquestioningly, once they returned, if she planned on staying sane. 

He smiled, a little ferally, in response to her desire-filled laugh. He loved that his suggestion had pleased her, *loved* the fact that he would get to act out this long-held desire with her. 

His hand stroked over her neck, however, as his mind switched tracks. He focused on the area he was tracing for a second before meeting her eyes again. "I think we both need something else first, though." He drew her in for a soft, deep kiss before releasing her and pushing her back a bit to separate himself from her. 

They both moaned at the loss of the bond again. He drew her into one more soft kiss before he rose. He smiled at her to assure her he was returning soon. 

She lay back and watched him happily, as he walked to the bathroom; she took advantage of the opportunity to eye his body, especially his soft curves. She growled slightly to herself. 

As her eyes ran up, though, she noticed the huge, undoubtedly painful, red lines she had given him in their passion since this morning, and she understood what he was getting. In moving her head slightly, as well, a strand of hair fell across a seriously-abraded spot on her neck, and she flinched slightly, closing her eyes. "Yep. Definitely a good idea," she thought. 

He returned to her to find her eyes closed, a look of slight pain on her face. He sat down quickly and pressed a hand to her cheek. She opened her eyes. "Are you alright?" he asked, concerned. 

Her eyes were warm. "I'm fine," she smiled. His look was disbelieving. "I'm just feeling a few of those spots." 

He smiled and produced the oil. "Which ones?" She lifted her head to reveal several of his marks on her neck. He looked a little chastened for a second. "I'm sorry, `Kita." 

Her eyes grew wide. "For what?" She then followed the trail of his thoughts and let out an angry sigh. "Don't you *dare* apologize to me, Michael." 

His own eyes were a little hard, as he uncapped the oil. "Why not?" 

She turned the tables on him, her eyes apologetic. "I saw the lines on your back. I'm sor . . ." 

He broke her off, his oil-covered finger running along her lips. His eyes were warning. "Not another word." Her eyes pressed her point, as he traced his finger around her lips, and he nodded in reluctant agreement. 

As usual, he saw himself as culpable for any painful results of their lovemaking, but he agreed to let the subject drop--if only so she wouldn't insult the passion marks on his back. He even loved their pain; he wished to *God* he could show them off--not to brag or boast but to prove that he belonged to her--to someone so beautiful and passionate, to prove that the attentions of others *wouldn't* be welcomed. 

Her eyes smiled back at him slightly, having made her point, and she took his finger in her mouth to suckle him. "Mmmm," she moaned. 

He let out a low growl. "`Kita," he warned passionately, pulling his finger back from her with a groan. . . . God, she had a divine mouth. 

She smiled at him and ran her tongue over the tip of his finger, as he withdrew it. His growl got louder, his eyes burning. He leaned in for a deep, demanding--but teasing--kiss, pulling back from it before she could really catch him up in it. She moaned. 

His eyes commanded her. "You've being very naughty," his eyes burned sensually. His hand retrieved some more oil and began to run it over the worst spots on her neck. 

"Mmm," she moaned--both at his words and his actions. She retrieved some of the oil herself and echoed his treatment on him, rubbing it over his lips. "Do I get to experience your `punishment' again?" 

His growl deepened, and he took her finger in to suckle it. She groaned in response--her pulse rate rising. "You're being pretty naughty yourself," she noted, withdrawing her finger and putting it back in her own mouth. 

He growled again, more ferally--at the action and the words. He leaned his head down to run his tongue lightly over each of the now-healing passion marks on her neck. Each tiny flick of his tongue sent a wave of intense desire into her--as he knew it would. She released her finger and moaned. 

He sat back up to look at her. "Does that mean I get a little `punishment,' too?" he smiled. 

She growled. "Do you like my punishments?" her eyes burned at him. Her hand ran some oil over the trouble spots on his neck. 

"Yes," he growled in return. His eyes were alight with the knowledge of just how much he loved them. "I love it when you control me," his eyes glowed, as he moaned at her attentions to his neck. 

She growled back at him. "And vice versa," she noted. 

His growl was becoming permanent. "*Yes*." 

Their hands seemed to decide that maybe they needed to speed up their treatments of each other. He ran the oil over her shoulders and then down to her breasts. She licked her lips at the sensation of his thumbs rubbing lightly over her. She moaned and returned the favor--to his groan. 

"I love the way your hands feel on me," he groaned, as her thumbs echoed his treatment by running over his nipples lightly. She took one in her fingers and pinched it slightly, and he moaned more loudly--his head back for a second. "I don't ever want anyone else to feel your touch," he said, lowering his head to command her eyes ferally. 

Her eyes burned back at him, but she felt the need to tell him something--to respond to something from their conversation earlier that evening. They had both ceased their ministrations to each other temporarily. "I never made love to anyone else before you--not Gray, not Chandler." Her eyes were serious. "And I've *certainly* never made love to anyone else since." 

His eyes were enraptured by her words. He leaned in to kiss her briefly before leaning back to hold her gaze. "Not Gray?" he asked seriously. 

She laughed and shook her head. "No." She looked deep into his eyes to see his fears. "I had sex with Gray, yes, but I never made love with him." 

His eyes were enraptured and grateful, but he wanted to know more. "How was it?" 

Her eyes grew wide. She hadn't expected him to ask that--it never occurred to her that the man recognized as a loss to the valentine ops. program, since he wasn't one full-time, would *ever* question whether she had had more satisfying lovers than him. 

She looked deep into his eyes, deep into his soul and searched out the reasons for his fears. She could tell--from looking there--that this wasn't a fear he ever had with any of his targets, with *anyone* else--simply because none of them mattered at all to him. He pleased them to the extent he needed to in order to ensure whatever Section's goal was and left; their pleasure meant nothing. But with the wife of his soul . . . 

She pursued what she saw in his eyes, needing to know a few things before she answered him. "Did you ever ask Simone that question about anyone?" 

He shook his head. "I never needed to." Her look asked him to go on. He sighed; as much as he loved Nikita, he still felt his first wife's pre-Section life belonged to her. He couldn't share it without permission. 

He tried to answer her in other ways, therefore. "We both knew there had never been anyone else, in any real sense." 

She nodded. Her voice got smaller, delving again into difficult areas. "Did you worry about whether you pleased Elena?" 

He nodded. "To an extent." His eyes were sad. "She deserved some pleasure--whatever I could give her to make up for what I was doing to her." 

Nikita saw his pain and leaned up to kiss him briefly. He moaned in it and then smiled at her, when she pulled away to lie back down. Her eyes asked him to continue. 

"I didn't have much competition. She'd only had one adult boyfriend, and he had been fairly inexperienced." His eyes were a little sad, but he was content to share this information with her; he wanted her to know about anything in his life he could tell her. 

Still, though, his own question was unanswered. "And Gray?" 

She noticed that he almost seemed to be holding his breath. She ran her hand down his chest and smiled to reassure him. "It wasn't much." 

"You told me you loved him," his eyes pointed out--the torment of the memory still shining in them. 

Her eyes answered him, along with her voice. "And you threw it right back in my face." 

He closed his eyes and looked down at the bed. "I'm sorry, `Kita." 

Her hand was on his shoulder. "You were jealous." 

He nodded, looking up at her, and repeated his words from earlier in the day. "I wanted to kill him." 

She remembered all too clearly the way the whole thing had ended. "You could have," she pointed out. 

He shook his head. "No. I couldn't let you hate me." She laughed a little--with vague, ironic humor--and looked down. "Not any more than you already do," he clarified, sharing her ironic smile. 

She looked back up at him and saw that he wanted to know more. She sighed. "Michael, I didn't love him." She looked away again. "I just needed someone who wasn't you, after you'd hurt me so badly--after you'd almost seduced me." 

He nodded and closed his eyes, his head down. She looked back up at him, continuing to tell him what he wanted to know. "He wasn't a bad lover, but he wasn't a good one, either." He looked back up at her, and she shrugged. "I had to lead him to what I wanted--and away from what I didn't, most of the time." She shook her head. "He didn't have any real sense of it, on his own." 

He took a deep breath, relieved--though not particularly surprised. The reason most male valentine ops. were so successful--and why most found the job so easy--was that all they had to do to please most of the targets was pay attention to them, to judge what their needs really were instead of either ignoring them or making assumptions. . . . Any man who grasped that the most important principle of the seduction of women was taking their needs seriously already had a bright future. 

His mind went back to his behavior during the whole incident with Wellman. He sighed. "I'm sorry, Nikita." He shook his head. "I'm sorry for all I did then." 

She shrugged and sat up. "Let's forget about it for now, Michael." She couldn't forgive--knew the whole incident had scarred her far too deeply, knew even more--from his behavior with Jurgen--that he was not incapable of backsliding again; for now, though, they could try to put it behind them temporarily--unless he fell again into the same pattern. Her hand stroked over his arm. "Let's not talk about it tonight." 

*********** 

He nodded and leaned in to kiss her--softly but deeply--before she pulled back from it. "Lie down, Michael." She smiled. "I still have some more marks to take care of." 

He shook his head a little. "I want to keep them." 

She shook her head as well--more emphatically. "No." She wasn't going to leave him in pain; she couldn't. Her smile grew teasing, though. "Now be a good husband and lie down, so I can take care of those nasty marks." 

His eyes were heated again; she knew all the right buttons to push in him. He kissed her briefly, before doing what she had asked. He looked back over his shoulder, though--his eyes alight with sensuality, as she began. "But what happens if I'm a `bad' husband, `Kita?" 

She growled and started her healing on his soft curves. She licked her lips at him. "Then, I'll give you some more lines, my love." 

He growled in return, his arousal throbbing heavily against the mattress. . . . He hoped desperately that was a promise she would keep. 

Her fingers moved up to run the soothing treatment over the abraded lines of his back--her hands kneading his muscles, her thumbs caressing his skin. She swallowed slightly, upset that she had hurt him so. 

"Don't," he broke into her thoughts. 

She stopped touching him--her hands near his shoulders, misunderstanding, and looked up. "What?" 

He groaned at the loss of her touch. "No. Don't stop." 

She resumed healing him but still looked confused. "What do you mean then?" 

"Don't look like that," he clarified. "I wanted those marks desperately. I would have been disappointed, if you hadn't given them to me." 

"But . . .," she began--still caressing him softly, although her treatment was finished. 

He rolled over, groaning, *very* sorry to lose her touch. "No." He shook his head. "If I can't apologize to you for mine, . . ." 

"Don't you dare," she broke in. 

He smiled, finishing. "Then you can't apologize for yours." 

Damn. . . . He had caught her in the logic of fair play. He had her. 

She rolled her eyes, giving in reluctantly. "Alright." 

He smiled. "Good." He kissed her. 

She moaned and deepened the kiss--happily lost there. When he pulled back, her mind had switched back to their latest fantasy. "If we're going to be in your `office,' does that mean you'll be wearing one of your usual suits?" She kissed him lightly. 

"Mm-hmm," he murmured, when she had released him. Her eyes seemed to light up. "Do you like that?" 

"*Yes*," she half-growled. 

He smiled a little further at her. "Would you like to choose?" he asked, standing up and leading her over to his closet, when her eyes flashed back at him. 

He opened it for her, and she was confronted with row on row of black. She smiled slightly. A few clothes of other colors seemed to cower in a distant corner, but most of them were his official Section mourning. 

She smiled at them lovingly. As much as she hated the despair these clothes symbolized in the man who had her heart, she couldn't help but see them as a symbol of him, as well. . . . It was inevitable, therefore, that she would love them. 

She began to run her hand over the soft fabrics. She knew just how much he loved the tantalizing touch of the right material. Her smile grew wider, too, pondering further. There were times, certainly, when to be confronted with so much overpowering evidence of just how far Section had gone in colonizing his life would be depressing, at best. But, right now, she was reveling in it. Once again, they were going to overturn all of the old symbolism; they were going to remind themselves that there was life underneath all of the grief. 

She leaned forward to press her nose to the clothes which--although freshly-laundered--still had his scent. . . . God, she loved him. "Mmm," she moaned quietly, before going about picking out the right combination. 

He smiled, watching her. He loved how much she was enjoying herself--how much joy she took in their games, in their conscious attempts to rework the pain of their lives into a newer pattern of hope and love. 

As she was leaning in, though, he remembered that he hadn't finished his healing with her. He stepped away to grab the oil quickly and came back to run it over her soft, marred curves. 

She moaned deeply, just as she had picked the clothes she wanted for him. "Michael," she moaned. 

"Mmm," he replied, taking her selection from her and hanging them on the handle of a nearby door. He tossed the oil on the bed before coming up behind her. He put his arms around her and ran his hands over her stomach, as he began nuzzling at her neck. "I love you, my Nikita." 

She moaned, as he kissed her neck lightly, suckling her skin gently. "Mmm," she moaned. 

They looked up, as they were turning, to catch sight of themselves in the closet door's mirror. They were both struck by the vision of the couple in front of them--the dark and light of their hair, the piercing quality of their eyes, . . . the absolute devotion which seemed to be with them as their birthright. The man's arms surrounded her, as she held him to her; their bodies seemed . . . right for each other. . . . They were a *very* beautiful pair. 

Their eyes caught each other's seductive look. "Later," she said definitively, to see the heated gaze in his, as he growled. 

He pulled her back to shut the door--closing off the view of the couple, both of them making a note of what their next fantasy that night would be. He kissed the side of her head, trying to pull them both back into their current little adventure. "And what will *you* wear, my love?" he asked huskily. 

She smiled and pulled away, turning to kiss him deeply for a minute. A moan was reverberating in his throat, when she pulled back. 

She led him over to the pile of clothes he had ordered for her several days ago. "Well?" she asked. 

He looked over them and chose a blue silk dress--the same shade as the one he had destroyed so passionately the night they had gone to Volare's. "Favorite color?" she asked. 

"On you," his eyes flared passionately, "yes." 

She smiled and gave him a last kiss, before they pulled back, moaning, again. Their eyes shone seductively at each other, as they finally retreated to begin their preparations for this latest game. . . . They were both a bit too aware that it was one of the last ones, but--since it was--they were both determined to enjoy it. 

She put on the dress and went back to the tantalizing closet mirror to check it out. Its sleeves were rather long, its hemline and collar apparently demure, but it wrapped around her body so perfectly that it was practically a second skin. It had a clasp on the side, allowing her to look as though it was partly wrapped around her. Its appeal was utterly visceral, but--at the same time--it somehow managed to have this effect without being obvious. . . . It was perfect. 

She brushed out her hair, leaving it long and straight. They were both foregoing shoes again; there was little point in them, after all. She turned once more to get the full effect of the outfit and smiled. 

That was when she caught sight of him behind her. Her breath caught. Their eyes locked together in the mirror, as he approached her, smiling--slightly ferally. He closed the closet door, as he turned her to him. "Next time." 

Her eyes flared back at him, and she ran her finger down his shirt. He had to catch her hand before it traveled any lower. His eyes smiled ferally at her. "Office," he said simply. 

She smiled back at and leaned up to kiss him deeply. "Yes," she breathed against his lips before recapturing him in it. 

He growled and held her to him for another few seconds--a little roughly--before forcing himself to pull back; he did want to live out this little fantasy they were starting, after all. "Are you ready?" he asked, preparing her for the transformation to his Section side. She nodded, and he pulled her into another kiss, saving her from having to watch; she moaned in it happily. 

When she pulled back from it a little later, though, the Section Michael stood before her. He backed away from her a little as a prelude, and she decided she better get things started before she had a chance to look at his cold features for too long. "What did you want to see me about, Michael?" 

His eyes flashed at her for beginning their fantasy. In his mind's eye, he could see her arriving in that devastating dress, her look guarded and a little confused. "Close the door." 

She smiled slightly, seeing it all just as clearly as he did. "I have." 

"Lock it," he instructed. 

"Why?" she challenged. 

His eyes flashed again. "Just do it." 

She nodded to indicate that it was. "Why the closed shades and the scrambler, Michael?" She shook her head. "No one's around. It's a pretty slow night." 

She was good. He smiled slightly. "That's why you're here." 

"You're bored?" she asked--partly confused, partly baiting him. 

He laughed slightly. "No. I had something to tell you that I needed to do in private." 

"Okay." She still looked confused. "What is it?" 

He was drawing closer. His hand found exactly where the hook was that held the dress together; she took in a breath. "I like that dress." His hand unhooked it to fall open at the same instant that the other one drew her into a long, deep kiss--one which stole her breath. 

She moaned in it for several minutes. His eroticism was soaking deep into her senses. 

She broke away from it finally, though, panting. She backed up a little, playing out their game. "Michael, what . . ." 

He caught up to her, and his hands slipped inside the parted dress to stroke over her skin. "Don't ask questions." He captured her mouth again. 

She was loving the kiss, but she was still tense. She pulled back from him, her eyes suspicious. "Am I a mission?" 

He shook his head. "No." His hands slid the dress off her shoulders to let it pool on the floor--leaving her entirely open to his view. "You're my wife." His face was blank but his eyes were burning sensually. "And we haven't both been away from missions at the same time for *far* too long." 

She melted a little against him at his choice of words; they were soothing her soul. His breath played over her lips--his hands over her sides. "Welcome back, my `Kita." He pulled her to him and caught her in a deep, erotic kiss. 

She moaned and put her arms around his neck to pull him deeper into it. Her naked form played against the sensual fabric of his clothes, tormenting them both. 

They searched each other's sweetness deeply there, losing themselves in their love. They were both moaning, wanting more. 

Finally, she pulled back from the kiss, although she still held him close to her. "I've missed you, my husband." 

He groaned and pulled her in for another deep kiss. "And I you, my sweet love," he murmured near her lips before recapturing her in it. 

Her hands ran through his hair, as she pulled back. "How long do we have?" 

He answered in terms of their real time. "Several hours still." His eyes burned lovingly over her features. His hands played over her naked hips. "Why weren't you wearing any underwear?" 

"I knew you'd invite me in, when I returned," she smiled. "I just wanted to be ready." 

He growled slightly in answer. His eyes continued to run over her. "Have I ever told you how beautiful you are?" 

Her eyes flashed a little in pain. "Not honestly." 

He shook his head. "Yes. I have." His lips breathed a fire over hers again. "You just weren't listening." He stole her breath away with another deep kiss. 

She pulled back for a few heartbeats after a minute or so, groaning. "I'll have to, next time." 

He nodded at her. "Yes. You will." He kissed her deeply--possessively again. 

"Mmm," she moaned in it before pulling back to look at him once more. "Michael." 

"Mm?" He began nibbling at her earlobe. 

"Mmm," she repeated. "Why are you still dressed?" 

He pulled back from her lobe to examine her heatedly. "Because my wife hasn't remedied that yet." 

Her heart thundered at his words. The very concept of him calling her his wife--and meaning it--made her heart glow with love for him. 

That love, too, blended in completely with her sensual desire. She was loving every second of their game, of their erotic connection; she smiled ferally back at him. "Then she'll just have to, won't she?" she smiled. 

************ 

Her hands ran up his shirt and under the shoulders of his jacket, pushing it off of him to drop to the floor. She continued tracing the broad sweep of his shoulders. "Very nice," she smiled up at him. "But let's see what else we can find." 

His eyes burned ferally at her. "Strip search?" he smiled slightly. 

She nodded. "Yes." His eyes flashed at hers. "Now let's see what contraband you're keeping." 

He growled at her teasing words, as she continued. Her hands pulled his shirt out of his pants and ran just under it; she stroked erotically up his chest--her touch burning a loving, sensual fire into him--until one of them connected with a small, aroused nipple. "Mmm," she moaned softly. "I think I've found something." 

He groaned, as she leaned down to suckle him through his shirt. Her teeth ran over him--her tongue then teasing him through the cloth, as he growled ferally. 

"Oh, I've definitely found something here," she smiled back up at him. "Let's see what it is." 

Her hands ran up under the shirt, pulling it up and over his head to dismiss it on the floor. "Mmm," she moaned, leaning down to take him in her mouth. 

He groaned deeply, holding her to him, as she suckled. "Yes," he moaned hoarsely. 

She ran her teeth over him, as she stood back up. "Why, Michael, it's one of my favorite playthings," she told him innocently. "Why ever did you hide it from me?" She leaned back down to it and ran her tongue over it, as he moaned. "I think it missed me," she said teasingly, before she took him in her mouth and began suckling him strongly. 

He groaned loudly. "Yes!" Her teeth ran over him, and he groaned again. "Yes, more," he panted, "more." 

She took him in her teeth and suckled him roughly, as he moaned and held her to him. She could feel his arousal throbbing strongly against her. 

Her touch was causing havoc in his senses; the warmth of her wet, soft mouth, the perfectly-timed sting of her wonderful teeth were making him shudder with need. He groaned. "It missed you, my love," he moaned, his hands in her hair, begging for more. She bit him again, and he moaned more loudly. "Yesssss," he moaned again. He kissed the top of her head. "*I* missed you." 

She moaned slightly against him, in return. His desire for her beat through her--ran strongly in her blood. . . . God, she loved pleasing him. 

He moaned, as she stood back up. She smiled teasingly at him--wanting to take their game further--and tweaked his other nipple with her fingers. He gave a whimpering moan. "Are you hiding anything else that missed me, my husband?" 

He moaned loudly in response, while her fingers played near his waistband. "Yes," he groaned at her commanding look. 

She walked over to stand on the mattress, leading him to stand in front of her. "We can't have that, can we, my love?" She smiled playfully, her eyes shining. "Show me the parts that missed me, Michael." Her tongue ran, suggestively, over her lips. 

His eyes shone lovingly back at her--his breathing ragged. "Now," she ordered him softly. 

He groaned in compliance and began by kissing her deeply, letting his mouth reacquaint itself with the wonderful sweetness of hers. She moaned deep in her throat. 

He then led her sweet mouth over his neck, letting her nip at little spots as they went down. "Yes, my `Kita, yes." He held her to the juncture of his neck and shoulder. "Please . . . rough," he begged. "I've been bad," he added as encouragement. 

She moaned and began tormenting him with her teeth, running them roughly over the tender spot. He moaned loudly. "Oh God, yes." He panted. "God, I've missed you there." 

She continued to be ruthless with the needy flesh, to his loud moans. One of her hands, though, found his, and she showed him that she wanted to be led further. He moaned and started to run her over himself. "Yes, yes . . . touch me," he begged. "I need your touch." He stroked her hand up to a nipple, and she pinched him roughly. 

He groaned loudly. God, she was wonderful, but he needed so much more of her. He moved her mouth over to nip at the juncture on the other side before leading her down to the nipple she had neglected before. 

He moaned, as she smiled and took him in her mouth, suckling the bud roughly; she pinched the other bud again, before he lowered her hand on himself. "Touch me, `Kita," he begged. 

He was crying slightly, as her hand ran down over his abdomen. He was overwhelmed by the sensations--both sensual and emotional. "God, I've waited so long for your touch." He moaned. "I've needed it for so long." 

"Mmm," her head was suckling over his heart. She understood what she was doing to him--the miracle of healing she was performing on his soul, . . . and she was adoring every single second of it. 

Her mouth broke from him for just a second. "Yes, Michael, lead me." Her head then went back to suckle his nipple once more. 

He was loving every second of this. It was singing brightly through his blood--was making him whole once more, was healing all of the damage he had inflicted upon himself. 

He was a bit unsure about it, though, at the same time--his fears reappearing. He couldn't stand the thought that he might hurt her; he was *terrified* that he was using her. 

She suckled him more strongly, sensing his conflict. He leaned his head back and moaned, a tear escaping one closed eye, as he held her to him. He could feel--indisputably--that she was enjoying her work; he knew it was true. He attempted, therefore, to calm his own fears, allowing himself to revel in the sweet healing she so willingly gave. . . . God, that such an angel could come to comfort him seemed unbelievable. 

He lowered her hand to stroke over his still-covered arousal. She moaned against his nipple. 

"Oh God, `Kita, yes!" he moaned, as he closed her hand over his covered arousal. The sensations were just too perfect--were *too* fulfilling. 

She knew he was loving this, but she half-suspected that his fears of hurting her would never get them past the next stage if she didn't take some action soon. She ran her teeth back over his nipple and then stood, as she slowly started to undo his pants. 

She watched him, as her hand hovered on his still-raised zipper. He moaned, caught in her eyes. "I told you to guide me, my love," she reminded him firmly. "You do want my touch, don't you?" 

He groaned out from his soul--needing her desperately. "Yes! Please, `Kita . . . yes." She still did nothing, until he guided her to expose his arousal. 

She smiled at this new view, as she revealed his beauty and looked back at him, when he was open to her sight. She helped guide him to step out of his clothing; he was too aroused and overwhelmed at the moment to think that coherently. 

She smiled sensually at him. "Do you want to try the desk, Michael?" 

He shook his head. "There is no desk, Nikita. There's nothing but clouds and light." His eyes held such incredible love for her. "We're not in Section anymore, my wife; you've broken us out of hell." He was crying slightly; his hand stroked her cheek. "My angel's taken me to heaven." 

Her eyes were full of loving tears at his words. "Mi-chael," she moaned. She pulled him into a deep, soft, erotic kiss. 

He moaned and responded to it--holding her to him. "Yes, `Kita . . . yes," he moaned before drawing her back into it. "Yes, my angel," he moaned. 

She moaned as well, through the continuing kiss. His love for her flowed so strongly--flowed straight into her. The overwhelming force of it made her tremble slightly. She saw their new, celestial atmosphere as clearly as he did now. 

He broke from the kiss finally. His whole body trembled near hers. "Let me make love to you, `Kita. Please. Let me make love to my angel." 

She moaned. "Michael, yes, please." 

They both went down to their knees on the mattress, their kiss resumed and intense. Their hands stroked over each other's sides. 

The light in her soul seemed to call to him. He needed it--needed her--desperately. He couldn't last another second without her. 

He broke from the kiss to look at her lovingly. "I love you, `Kita--now and forever." He shook his head. "Come heaven or hell, life or death--nothing, *no one* will ever stop me from loving you." He stroked her face in his hands, softly wiping away a tear. "God granted me an angel, `Kita, and I'm *never* going to let her go." 

"Michael," she moaned. Her hands stroked away his tears, as well. "You're *my* angel." 

His look turned despairing; he shook his head. "No, Nikita. I'm a demon. I fell from grace long before I ever met you, . . . but you saved me anyway." He kissed over her eyes, quietly tasting her tears. "I don't know why, but you saved me." 

She shook her head, her eyes reflecting the incredible depth of her love. "You're my other half, Michael--the mate to my soul. I can never be happy--I can never be saved without you." 

"`Kita," he moaned. He was still crying quietly, steadily. "I've never done anything to deserve you. I've earned my place in hell." His hands stroked through her hair. "But, no matter how far I fall, I will *always* love you." One thumb traced down her face, his eyes following it. "I will still need you long, long after death." His eyes refocused on hers, his question serious--his look afraid. "Can you accept the demon who's hurt you, my sweet angel?" 

She swallowed, knowing she couldn't answer the question he had asked in the way he wanted. She shook her head sadly. "No, Michael." She swallowed heavily. "I reject him with all my heart and soul." 

He closed his eyes, as his tears fell. He wasn't surprised by her rejection, but he was devastated, nonetheless. She was his *only* hope of salvation, after all. 

"No, my Michael, no . . . don't cry." She kissed away the tears on his face, tasting them; she hated that she had made him sad. "I reject the demon in you, but the angel I see before me I accept with open arms." He looked back at her, transfixed, as her eyes watched him lovingly. "I'm yours forever, my sweet angel." 

He groaned. He could feel it--the part of him that she had brought to life--the part of him it was so much easier to pretend didn't exist. He could feel it, fluttering in him, like the wings of a small, caged bird--beating against its confinement, begging to be set free. 

He groaned again and swallowed heavily, his tears flowing freely. He took her hand, placing it over his heart. "There--do you feel it?" His eyes belonged to her alone. "I was dead before I met you. I had rejected everything pure and beautiful." He held her hand to him, stroking it with his thumb. "You brought me back--you alone. You're my savior, my love." 

She moaned softly at his words, and his other hand traced over a strand of hair, as he examined it. "My beautiful savior." He looked back at her eyes. "I'll never be alive again without you." 

"Michael," she moaned. She *did* feel it--could feel the love she had brought to fruition in him. 

She took his hand from her hair and placed it over her heart, as well--stroking along the back. Her eyes shone lovingly at him. "You're not alone, my sweet Michael. You brought me back, as well." She shook her head to stop him from denying it. "No. I was afraid and alone before I met you. I had never trusted enough to love before." 

She swallowed heavily, continuing, as he moaned. "You taught me that it was alright to risk myself--that even if my heart was shattered, it could still be mended." Her voice grew much softer. "You taught me more about what it means to be able to stand completely exposed in the light of someone else's soul in that one night in Paris than I'd learned in almost 20 years before it." 

She shook her head, asking to finish her thought. "Even with all our problems--even with all of the set backs, only you taught me how to trust someone enough to let them into my soul." 

He moaned slightly, unconvinced of his angelic status to her. "But I've defiled it." 

She shook her head. "No." She swallowed heavily, forcing a small smile. "You've tried to steal it for demonic purposes," she agreed. "And you've come close once or twice, . . . but you've never once defiled it." 

He moaned, not believing. She put her arms around him. "Come to me, Michael. Come to my soul." She held him close, as he moaned; his arousal beat insanely for her--desperate to connect. "It's right here." She began kissing around his face. "Come to it, and see how pure it still is." 

Her lips hovered over his with her offer. He moaned, needing her, and tasted them softly. 

He groaned, when he did. He could feel her soul everywhere--in every fiber of his physical being, in every corner of his mind, in every part of *his* soul. . . . All of the shadows, all of the demons, all of the fears and evil disappeared with her soft touch. 

He kissed her a little more deeply and moaned further. Her soul really wasn't contaminated; there was *nothing* impure there, in this moment. He could feel it--her love, her warmth, her light--all of it called out for him, begged for him. All of it held the healing power of her touch. 

He moaned, pulling back from the kiss momentarily. "Yes, `Kita," he groaned. His soul needed hers with a strength so profound it almost frightened him. He searched her eyes and saw her love. He choked back a sob. "Yes, my beautiful angel." He held her to him, his lips near hers, as he groaned out his plea, "Heal me." 

************ 

His arms surrounded her, holding her close, as he lay her back on the bed. She moaned in acknowledgment of his need for healing. Her soul opened up to him, letting him in--making him whole. 

He lay on top of her, kissing her deeply. But what he felt beneath him wasn't just a woman; she was fire and air, was earth and spirit, was water and sunlight. She was every celestial mystery the world had ever known. . . . And, tonight, she was his completely. 

He searched the softness of her mouth as though he were tasting a cloud--his tongue running lightly, teasingly over hers. His hands roamed her body as though she were his church, as though every soft curve, every smooth plane, every small mound were sacred. . . . And--oh God--to him, they were. 

Nikita moaned under him, accepting him like a holy altar offering itself to an exhausted, soul-weary pilgrim. She needed the healing of this every bit as much as he did. Every stroke of his hands reminded her that she was loved and adored--that all of the years of neglect and heartache were simply spiritual tests performed by the unsaved. 

She needed him so desperately--needed his worship to make her whole, to complete her again. She took his hand and led him to her breast, needing his touch like the love of God. 

He moaned and broke from the kiss to look at her briefly. "Oh God, `Kita, my angel . . . I love you," he testified, before he began to run soft, wet lines down the skin of her neck--tracing his kisses of devotion there lightly. 

She moaned at the sensation, every loving kiss touching her soul--healing a past degradation, a past wound. His hand, too, stroked its devotion into her aching nipple--tempting it with the coming arrival of his mouth. 

His pilgrimage continued, his mouth tracing its wet, soft kisses down her breastbone, as he began to move along her to the nipple above her heart. She was moaning, her hands in his silken hair, encouraging him in his devotions. 

When he finally reached the nipple and took it into his soft, warm, loving mouth, she gave a shuddering cry. He moaned deeply in response, suckling her softly. 

The sensation was intense--their souls connecting at her heart, strengthening the life line which already existed between them. He could feel every beat of her heart against his lips--felt it pumping her love through them both, as his angel moaned at the intense love of his devotions--strengthening their bond even further. 

He let go of her to lick over the little bud twice before kissing it goodbye. He then ran his wet kisses over toward its twin. 

His angel, though, couldn't wait any longer. She needed to feel the true strength of their bond--couldn't wait another second for her angel to make her whole. She held onto his arms and started pulling him back up her body. "Michael . . . Michael, my angel, please." 

He agreed to ascend her again with a moan, continuing to show her his devotion in his wet, soft kisses--running them back up the line of her throat. When he reached her lips, he joined her in a deep, soft kiss. 

He didn't need her words to know what she wanted. Everything he had to know was in the knowledge of her soul he found so sweetly in her soft depths. 

She held him to her--held him deeply in the kiss, souls communing and communicating. He understood her need--her request. He needed it too; he had to have that connection between them again to be whole--to be healed. . . . Without it, he would die. 

His hands framed her face, as she held him to her. They both began to prepare for their final, total union, her legs parting to invite him into her--asking to heal and be healed. 

Before he did, though, he remembered the oil. Neither had healed each other here earlier, and he knew they both needed it. She seemed to pick up on his thought, as well, and they both blindly but skillfully found the tube. 

The kiss continued, as he poured some of the oil into her hand, and she brought it down to rub lightly over his length--not yet rubbing it in. That accomplished, they clasped their hands together, and he adjusted his hips to position himself--to ready himself for their union. 

They broke the kiss on a shared, erotic groan, as the tip of his shaft touched her. They then watched one another's eyes devotedly, as their bodies joined. 

The oil eased his entrance into her even more than her own desire. They seemed to glide together as one--each of them seeking and accepting the advances of the other; his beautiful shaft became one with her soulful depths--every inch a miracle. 

With every perfect inch, too, they could feel the incredible effects of the oil . . . the physical healing and rejuvenation adding to the spiritual. They were both panting, eyes wide, mouths open. One of each of their hands clenched the other's tightly, while they clung to one another's backs with the other--holding themselves together. 

Their eyes, too, saw everything--every joy, every desire, every amazing second of love shone there. As they connected completely, as he was covered entirely--tightly by her sweet depths, they both let out small moans of joy. There was no doubt, no fear, no pain, no guilt, and no recrimination in their eyes; all of their torment had been discarded. 

They pulled each other into a deep kiss finally, as they began moaning in unison, every breath and sound shared. They started stroking each other deeply--every stroke running entirely through her; at every inch, too, they could feel everything in one another--all of the shining love and desire. 

They broke the kiss to watch each other again. The emotions were just too intense not to watch them all being mirrored in the other's eyes. They stroked one another like a single being made for that purpose, like a heart made to pump blood to support the whole person. 

They were one, and every joy one experienced, the other did as well. It was a sort of sensual synesthesia--all of the emotions and feelings of one being felt completely by the other. 

She could sense the pleasure of his shaft, as it ran through her, could feel it pounding with desire inside her warm, tight depths--could feel the frisson of shuddering joy in it as its need continued to build upon itself, wanting more of her. He, too, could feel the coming ecstasy in her--could sense the overwhelming pleasure of her walls, as they were stroked in angelic abandon by his large, needy shaft; could feel it when he stroked repeatedly over a needy little spot; could sense it as that spot begged for more and was given it in loving, intense desire. 

They could each feel all of their angelic lover's other sensations, too. They each knew the way it felt to be one another--to be in their skin--sensing what were normally their own hands, their own bodies on their lover's; they felt the love and desire and *wholeness* of the act from each other's perspective--felt all of the other's love for them alone. 

It was the most intensely private and personal experience of either of their lives. Had there been an audience of thousands, they still couldn't have focused anywhere outside of each other and themselves and the union they created. 

Their eyes held mysteries neither could *ever* have put into words. They saw God and love in one another's eyes--saw the purity of life brought before them. 

The oil, too, made every stroke a hundred times more intense, and--on some level of their consciousness--they each were amazed by the irony of it. Section had created the oil, after all, to aid in the manipulation of lives and souls--had made it to ease the physical pains of those who twisted something sacred into something perverse. 

Now, though, they were reinventing it. They were reinventing themselves. No matter how much it may appear--in some future day--that they were still separate beings, some part of them would always know the truth. 

He could see the beginning of her release in the light flowing from her eyes. He took his hand from hers to place it on her cheek, waiting in incredible anticipation for every second of it, his eyes locked to her loving gaze. 

Her eyes were wide and open--were begging for the touch of his soul, for the love of his heart. He kissed her softly before pulling back--his eyes giving these treasures to her unreservedly. 

Their singing strokes moved deeper, became more intense. They each felt them moving through the whole of her depths, gliding straight into the heart of her core. 

She was moaning loudly, her hands clinging to his back, as she felt herself losing her already-cloudy sense of place. His eyes connected straight into her soul, as he stroked his healing, his love, and his devotion straight into the most needy part of her heart and soul. 

"Oh God," she moaned. He leaned down to a half-inch from her face, watching her eyes intensely, as he delivered the final soulful strokes to release her into paradise. 

"I love you, Nikita," he whispered to her, as he connected strongly with what he knew was her most needy spot. 

Her head fell back, as she lost hold of herself. Her eyes glowed her love into him, as her heart sang within her, beating in time with the throbbing ecstasy which filled her body and mind. "Michael," she whispered, and her sweet depths tightened around him even further, as her body convulsed in warming, spreading erotic love beneath him. 

He took in a breath, convinced that it contained her soul. He leaned down to kiss her--tasting her warm ecstasy on her lips. 

She was still trembling fiercely when he changed their positions. He had loved watching her first release, but he knew they could give her one more--one where he would join her. He put his hands on the backs of her shoulders and pulled her toward him, as he leaned back. "Ride me, my angel," he begged. 

"Oh," she breathed, her depths still trembling strongly around him. His words ignited the warmth and light of her on-going release, making her need for him nearly unbearable. 

She agreed with a moan--desperate to be part of him this way, their transition fluid. Her hands held his shoulders, as she tilted her head back and rode over him in long, tight, deep strokes--his shaft rubbing against an intensely-aroused spot inside of her with each thrust. 

Her eyes were closed, but she felt him in every thrust, felt their total, coming union. She didn't feel like her soul was alone in her body anymore; his was with her . . . and part of hers, as well, was in him. 

His light flowed through her in waves, as she rode over him. Her last release crested finally--on her moan--and then began to build again with him. 

She could feel him stroking with her--their coming union building in unison. Her back was arched, as she became part of him, souls flowing wildly. 

He felt it all too--felt her joy flowing through him. She had exorcised all of his darknesses completely; he no longer felt any of them. All he could feel was light--*her* light . . . his light. 

"`Kita," he moaned, as he felt himself trembling within her, his release only several seconds away. 

Her eyes refocused on him, and she smiled with such incredible love that it seemed to reach into his heart. He moaned. 

They could both almost see the light flooding between them. There were only seconds left before they were whole--truly whole again. 

Their eyes shared all of their knowledge and their love, connected them to each other seamlessly. Then, he leaned forward to suckle deeply near her heart, and everything between and within them exploded into light. 

Neither one had *any* idea where they began or ended, at that moment. They were so much a single whole that they couldn't comprehend the entire concept of separateness. Their souls opened to each other--taking one another in and then closing around themselves again, recreated--reshaped in light. 

The physical release that arched and racked their bodies--which made them cry out and tremble in desperate pleasure was absolutely insignificant compared to the spiritual wholeness of their union. Their bodies' trembling, aching warmth and completion almost seemed to be happening to different, separate people, while their souls flowed into an absolute whole. 

They stayed like that--a creature made wholly of light--for some amount of time they had no way of comprehending. . . . They only finally seemed to come back into a consciousness of "self," in fact, when their bodies searched out their partner's in a kiss. 

It was almost a physical shock to find themselves separate beings again. Part of them wanted to weep with the utter frustration--the total isolation of it, until they opened their eyes to look deep into one another's souls. 

Their breaths caught at the same instant, on an incredible realization. They knew, without question--that their bodies, in some ways, were inconsequential. Their souls were always one. . . . And nothing Section One could ever try to do about it would ever make a damn bit of difference at all. 

************** 

They spent the next half hour simply holding each other, gently stroking one another's faces, staring into each other's eyes. Occasionally, they would lean in to kiss some treasured feature of the other before resuming their enraptured gaze once more. 

They were both still sitting up, unable--unwilling to move enough from the embrace to even lie down. Neither of them could think outside of the other--could imagine anything beyond the whole the two of them created. . . . They were both simply, happily lost in one another's souls. 

They *never* wanted this to end; they never wanted to be anywhere but here in each other's arms. They could understand no reason or purpose for their lives outside of this. . . . Surely God didn't intend for them to exist in any other way? 

Their breathing quickened, though, when they both remembered in tandem that--while God may not have any other plans for them, Section *certainly* did. They closed their eyes to hold back the tears which threatened to overwhelm them and leaned their foreheads together, trying to keep from breaking down with the pain of the thought. 

They hated the fact that this was only a temporary taste of paradise--hated that Section would do its best to destroy the one bit of spiritual purity they had found. They sighed shakily, rubbing their foreheads lightly over each other's. Their time together--this short space of bliss which seemed to make sense of the meaning of their lives--was almost over. The night was deepening; if they hoped to get any sleep before their return--rest they would surely need to be able to cope with whatever torments Section had in store for them--they would have to get it soon. 

They both knew that they probably only had time left for one more union. And, while it was possible that they could both have been content to have the memory of their last spiritual completion be the ultimate one which they would live on for months--possibly years, they had made a promise to one another that there would be one more. . . . And it was a promise neither of them would complain about having to keep. 

They tilted their heads to press their lips in softly toward each other's, their eyes still closed. They knew that they probably needed one more time to connect with one another here--one more time to impress the image of their deep love and devotion onto each other's souls. 

They each began exploring the other's mouth gently, their tongues softly stroking along the wonders there. They were almost trying to memorize the sensation for the future; they needed to be able to close their eyes, when the pain of their lives came upon them again, and remember what it was like to explore their soul's partner. 

They both moaned quietly at the sensation, loving this gentle pleasure. Their bodies began to respond to the call of their love again--his shaft starting to beat once more, as his heart's blood coursed in it. 

She moaned more loudly and pulled back to focus on him finally. "Not yet," she whispered. 

He kissed her softly and then nodded. "What do you want?" His hand stroked over her cheek. 

She smiled lovingly at him and rubbed her cheek over his palm. Her hands ran down the length of his back, feeling the muscles there responding to her. "I want to touch you." 

His eyes were filled with devotion. He continued stroking her face, as he leaned in to kiss her softly--moving from her lips, up over her cheek, to her temple. She moaned. He pressed his lips gently to hers once more before looking back at her, his eyes loving. "Yes . . . please." 

She smiled gently at him. He was so beautiful. She loved dearly how he was allowing her to explore him--how he was openly asking for her touch . . . for her love. 

A sudden shadow of tormenting sadness passed over her, though, when she thought about how little time there was left for them--about the way her thoughtful, tender-hearted, loving husband would disappear tomorrow, would be replaced once again by the ruthless man who had damaged her so often. 

She repressed her shudder and kissed the hand on her cheek, letting him know that she wasn't going to dwell on their future. She knew he had felt the change in her, but she was determined that it would only be a temporary one. 

No--for right now, they were still together. For right now, she still had a husband who adored and worshiped her--one who needed both to give and receive healing with her. . . . She wouldn't let a second of their remaining time pass without cherishing this fact to its fullest extent. 

She stroked her hands over his face, her thumbs brushing along his cheekbones. "I love you, Michael." She knew that she would have few opportunities to voice this truth in the future. Her eyes were soft and adoring. 

He returned her look a hundredfold. "`Kita," he sighed, drawing her in toward himself to kiss her--deeply and tenderly. 

She moaned in the kiss, moaning more loudly to protest slightly when he pulled back. "My `Kita," he whispered, before leaning in to brush his lips lightly over hers twice. "I love you." He repeated his soft action. "Forever." 

"Michael," she sighed. She pulled him into a soft, exploring kiss for a minute, loving the feeling of being so near him. 

She forced herself to remember, finally, though, that she needed to move on. They had so little time left, after all, and there were still more wonderful pleasures they wanted to share. 

She pulled back from the kiss, as her hands took hold of his shoulder and his hip. They then kept eye contact lovingly, as she pulled herself off of him--both of them moaning at the loss. 

He continued to search her gaze adoringly, leaning in to kiss her--briefly and softly, asking her--without words--where she wanted to begin. She smiled in return and kissed him lightly, understanding his unspoken question completely. "Lie down," her hand stroked over his cheek, "my beautiful angel." 

He moaned loudly at her words and drew her face toward him to capture her in a deep, impassioned kiss. If there was anything angelic within him, it came from her. . . . He adored, however, that--for awhile--he could pretend that such a side existed in him naturally. 

She returned the kiss, as they both moaned softly in it. She knew that, despite their last--almost ethereal--union, he still couldn't see his own beauty--knew that it frightened him terribly to admit to the sacred parts of his soul. 

She was determined, however, to change him--if only for a little while. She just wanted there to be some small part of his consciousness which remembered that he had access to a sense of the divine within himself. . . . Maybe, if he could begin to truly comprehend this fact, he would make a more determined effort at changing himself--at bringing out his own goodness. 

She had every intention of making use of the mirrors they had discovered earlier. She wanted him--desperately wanted him--to see his own beauty, to see how perfect they were together, when they approached each other in love. . . . She wanted him to see the sensual, loving man she adored so completely--the one Section had tried, for so long, to destroy. 

There was one other thing she needed to do first, though. She wanted to touch him--to caress his aching muscles back into a state of peace. They were both rather exhausted and well-used from their lovemaking of the last few days, after all; they would probably be lucky--would probably need copious doses of the miracle oil--just to be able to *walk* by tomorrow. . . . She could just see Madeline's ironic eyebrow lift, when the older woman saw her make her way into Section looking like she had just come back from a *very* long trail ride. 

She pulled back from the kiss with a moan and slight smile before giving him a seductive look. She repeated her earlier words. "Lie down, Michael." 

************ 

He gave her one more quick kiss and then allowed her to guide him onto his stomach. He moaned, as his arousal throbbed against the bed. 

She took one of his arms and lay it down to his side. "I have every intention of following the plan we discussed earlier," she told him, her voice deep with arousal, "but there's something I want to do first." 

He moaned at her words, and her hands began to massage his shoulder, stroking and soothing the tightened muscles there. He moaned more loudly, the eye which was turned toward her reflecting the heat burning within him. "`Kita." His sigh turned into a groan, as her hands began to knead down his tired back. 

He closed his eyes. She could feel the deep moans he was giving reverberating through her hands, as she continued her intense, sensual massage. "God, I love your hands," he breathed. "I love the way you touch me." 

She smiled and continued on with her work. She left no muscle on his back untended to. Her deep caresses seemed to burn into him--both soothing his tired body and arousing him to an almost unbearable degree. 

He kept his eyes closed to savor the sensations. She had moved slowly down half of his back and was now beginning to massage her way back up. He moaned. The love she was transferring to him was intense; she seemed to be caressing it straight into the muscles there. 

He could feel the heat of his need for her in his blood--coursing through him. His shaft was--once again--throbbing and desperate for her, was aching with his need to connect to this beautiful, sensual soul--to his heart's lover. "Yes," he sighed, as she continued on, beginning to stroke her healing into his other shoulder. 

She smiled softly at him, even though he couldn't see her. There were other reasons for her decision to touch him like this, after all; she was loving each individual second of this opportunity every bit as much as he was. She loved being able to touch him, being allowed to explore the body of the man she so deeply adored. . . . This was a fact, too, that she needed to make sure he knew. 

She let out a soft, seductive moan, as she moved down to his soft curves. "Mmm, I love exploring you, my sweet angel." Her hands massaged her love deep into him here, rubbing away some of the tension from his well-used hips. 

He groaned loudly. Her words were erotic enough on their own, but her actions . . . She was stroking his aroused length against the sheets with each caress. . . . The feeling was driving him mad. 

She smiled more deeply, loving that he was allowing her--was reveling in her soft torments; she thought back to some of his words from earlier that evening. "You're right, my beautiful one," her voice caressed him; she moved her hands down to begin massaging the backs of his thighs--to his deep groan. "You were made by God to please me." 

He groaned even more loudly and opened his eyes again. He started to sit up to turn around. "`Ki-ta," his voice moaned out. 

She grabbed his shoulder softly, as he was moving. "No, my sweet one." She smiled, as he looked back at her. "I'm not done yet." She leaned in to kiss his temple and over his cheek, as he closed his eyes again to moan. "Lie down," she instructed, pushing him gently to the bed; he groaned once more but did as she asked. 

He couldn't stop the tears which began to flow down his cheeks, however. He just loved her so much--adored her soul, worshiped it like a divine revelation. . . . The love she gave him in return seemed too perfect to be real. 

She saw the tear and swallowed heavily herself. . . . God, she loved him so much. 

She continued her caressing devotions--working further down his legs, as she tried to put her emotions into words. "There's nothing about you--when we're here--that I don't adore." 

He moaned, as she reached his calves, her thumbs massaging away the ache from them. He adored her so much; there was just no way to express it. He couldn't stop his tears. "I love you, Nikita," he breathed. 

She kissed his shoulder, as her hands came back up finally, running underneath him to caress the front of his thighs. Her hands came *very* close to his throbbing arousal without ever quite touching it--a feeling of sweet torment for him. She smiled at his groan and kissed his shoulder again. "God made us to be together, my sweet Michael." 

He moaned, his hips rotating a little--unconsciously attempting to force one of her hands to brush against his length. She laughed slightly, throatily, and started to lean over him--her hands running under him, up his stomach--toward his chest. She kissed his shoulder again, her tongue running out to taste his skin. "Yes," he moaned. 

She laughed throatily again and stroked her hands further up him to begin to stroke over his small nipples. He groaned from deep in his throat, and she felt it reverberate along her body, as she was lying on top of him. "Mmm," she moaned seductively, before her tongue continued stroking his shoulder. "You were made to be worshiped." She began to suckle him there, as she moaned against his skin. 

He groaned loudly, his eyes closed, his head back slightly. His breathing was highly erratic. "Yes," he moaned again. 

She laughed softly and ran one hand down his arm, massaging the tired muscles there. She was still suckling his shoulder. 

He moaned loudly and moved his other arm under himself to grab her hand. He then pulled her down on the bed, away from her devotions to him, moving back to position himself on top of her--effectively pulling her underneath him. 

His eyes glowed down at her, as she looked adoringly up at him. His hands stroked over her sides and up to her shoulders. His arousal was beating insanely against her. "You're almost too damn erotic to bear," he whispered hoarsely at her. 

She moaned and ran her hands over his arms, as they stroked along her. "Michael," she breathed. 

He smiled down at her, his eyes alight. "I love you," he stated firmly; his eyes were very strong. "Don't ever forget it," he ordered softly. 

She moaned. "Michael, yes." 

He smiled more heatedly down at her and leaned down to capture her in a deep, erotic kiss. She moaned beneath him, loving the feeling of his body on top of her. 

He pulled back from it for a second to disconnect their lips, still running the tip of his tongue lightly over hers. She moaned loudly, and he captured her deeply in the kiss once more, as she held him in it. 

He continued kissing her for several seconds, before he pulled back finally, his teeth running lightly over her bottom lip. He smiled seductively, a little ferally at her, when she looked back up at him. He sat up and moved himself off of her--to her groan. "Roll over," he ordered quietly. 

She moaned, still watching him, and he moved her by her shoulder, softly rolling her onto her stomach. "Mmm," she moaned at the sensation. 

He moved her hair to one side and began caressing the tightened muscles of her neck. She moaned. 

"I love touching you," he whispered. His fingers thrummed lightly up and down the sides of her neck. He leaned in to kiss her temple, and she moaned again. 

He kissed her cheek before sitting back up, his hands moving down to stroke his deep comfort into her shoulders. "You were made to be explored by me." His thumbs stroked strongly along the muscles there, moving in toward her spine and then back out again. 

"Yes . . . Michael," she moaned. God, she loved being touched by him. She could imagine nothing which could arouse her more than this. 

His hands captured her shoulders gently and began to massage them deeply, his fingers stroking his comfort into the crook of her neck. She whimpered in pleasure and turned her head to press her forehead into the mattress, her eyes tightly closed. He massaged her shoulders even more strongly, and she let out a deep "Ahhhh." 

He smiled down at her, loving her reaction. He moved his hands further down her back, running his fingers deeply over the lines there. She continued to whimper, adoring the feeling of his hands on her. "Michael," she breathed again. 

His smile deepened, as he caressed further down her back--his hands running a warm, loving comfort deep into her muscles and her soul. His arousal throbbed against her soft curves, taunting her. 

"I was made to touch you, Nikita." His hands began massaging her tired lower back strongly, seeping his deep love into her. 

She moaned. "Yes." 

He kissed her shoulder lightly, while his hands came down to begin massaging her soft curves and her hips. She whimpered in pleasure and need. "I was made to be the source of all of your pleasure," he kissed her shoulder once more, "as you will always be mine." 

She whimpered more loudly beneath him, as he gave her curves a final caress or two before moving down to start his devotions to her thighs. He smiled; his hands wrapped entirely around one and began caressing up and down, his pressure soothing her tired muscles. 

"Ohhh," she moaned. He was successfully soothing her aching body but was creating another pounding need deep inside her. . . . She wanted him so much--wanted to connect with him once more; she wanted them both to have another beautiful encounter to remember, when Section forced them away from each other again. 

He groaned loudly. He had moved down one leg and was just finishing his caresses to her calf. She moaned, then, as he moved down to her foot, beginning to massage it deeply, running his thumbs lightly down the ticklish sole from time to time. 

She groaned loudly, laughing a little in need--her head back. "Michael," she moaned. Her voice seemed to tremble with need. 

He leaned down to kiss her sole and then moved his devotions over to the other one. He loved that he could please her so. 

He could feel her desperate arousal building with each of his caresses. He was now just beginning to caress her thigh. Her moan shuddered through her, as he moved his way up, and he responded to it with a groan of his own. "You're an angel, my sweet wife," he breathed huskily at her. His caresses moved much further up her thigh, coming just close enough to her depths to tease her with his proximity--to her loud groan. "You were formed to be a creature of light and desire." 

She whimpered once more, and he leaned back over her, his hands encircling her. He lay on top of her--his arousal throbbing against her, as his hands stroked her stomach; he kissed at her shoulder, suckling it softly for a second. "You're *my* creature, my sweet one." He kissed her shoulder again. "You're my angel, my sweet wife." 

She groaned. "Michael." He moved away from her again to turn her back over. 

She lay there for several seconds, as they both simply watched each other, took each other in. They loved--adored one another so much. 

She reached her hand up to stroke gently over his shoulder, as he took in a shaky breath. She began to trail it down his chest next, her eyes fixed on its path. 

"`Kita," he breathed. Her fingers found his nipple and began stroking it lightly, as her eyes refocused on his--a smile on her beautiful face. 

He moaned, watching her. Even the lightest of her touches made him *burn*. He swallowed heavily, and then leaned his head back to groan, as she pinched his small bud lightly. 

Her smile grew. She stopped tormenting him and took hold of his upper arm, drawing herself to sit up again. 

His groan was caught in his throat, when he found that she had taken hold of his head and drawn him into a deep, erotic kiss--teasing him with her skilled tongue. He moaned and held her to him. 

When she broke the kiss to look at him, a few minutes later, he moaned and tried to follow. His eyes were devoted only to her--he was caught entirely in her gaze. 

She leaned in to kiss him lightly for a second before pulling back to smile at him again; her hand stroked over his upper arm. "The mirrors, Michael," she reminded him, her smile growing seductive. "I want you to see yourself--how beautiful you are." 

He groaned at her suggestion. "Yes," he half-moaned. 

************* 

He leaned in to kiss her for a second before pulling away from her and standing--walking over to open his closet doors--revealing them both in the twin mirrors. She smiled and got up to begin moving the mattress a bit closer to them--wanting to ensure them both the best possible view. 

He growled for a second at the view of her from behind that started to come toward him, as she worked. Then, he turned to help her position the mattress between the two doors--both of them judging easily where it would best be placed for the perfect view, their years of training and experience in judging spatial relations becoming useful again. 

They stood on the mattress and held each other for a few minutes, simply examining one another's beauty. They kissed softly, briefly, before Michael turned her around to face the mirror. 

He put his arms around her again and held her close, as he leaned in to kiss her temple. He met her eyes in their reflection. "Watch yourself, Nikita. I want you to see how beautiful you are," he kissed down her cheek, "how exquisite you are," his voice grew even softer--a little husky, "what a celestial angel you are when we make love." Her eyes widened at him in their reflection. His hands were splayed over her stomach and abdomen, were stroking her flesh softly, were running little heated lines along her. "I want you to watch the woman I adore." 

"Michael," she breathed. She had intended to start with him--to show him his beauty, not the other way around. Still, she couldn't complain about this. . . . It was just too wonderful. 

He smiled at her reflection, as his hands ran up to stroke the underside of her breasts, which became even more intensely aroused. "Watch yourself," he told her softly. He kissed her cheek. "I'll stop, if you don't." 

He saw slight tears in her eyes and knew what she was feeling. There had been too many years of neglect and abuse; she had spent too long believing the lies of her childhood--that she was ugly, stupid, and useless. It was hard for her to allow herself to truly see the stunningly beautiful woman who looked back in her own reflection. 

Like Michael, of course, she had come to understand that people reacted to her physically--that she could dress to make a roomful of people take in their breaths with her appearance. But--also like him--she had never truly allowed this information to convey to her just how gorgeous she was. 

She watched the woman in the mirror, as her beautiful lover dipped his head to give the crook of her neck a light bite. His hands, too, traced further up to capture her perfect nipples between his fingers, enclosing them with just the sort of erotic pressure she needed. 

She moaned out in desire, and the man in the mirror stroked his thumbs over the woman's tender, pink buds. He kissed her cheek again. "Watch yourself, my sweet wife," he whispered to her. She moaned more loudly at the words; the visual reinforcement of herself with Michael--with herself as his chosen partner--almost overwhelmed her. 

He kissed down her cheek to suckle at the crook of her neck again for a second. She moaned, and he released her with the caressing stroke of his tongue. "I want you to see how beautiful you are, my angel." He kissed her cheek again, as he began massaging her breasts, his thumbs stroking over her aroused buds; she moaned in response, watching his actions. "I want you to see the creature of light who came down from heaven to be with me." 

"Michael," she moaned. 

He kissed her cheek. "See yourself as I do, my dear one." He kissed her again, before whispering his words in a hot breath at her ear. "Watch yourself, as I please you." 

She moaned loudly, watching the desire and love flame to life in her own eyes. She took his hands and held them closer to herself. 

He smiled at her and took her nipples in his fingers, squeezing them perfectly. She watched herself moan loudly at this action, her body leaning back against her sensual lover's, her hands holding his to her--encouraging his actions. 

She shuddered slightly, pleasantly, at the image--the desire sparkling in her eyes. She was beginning to see what Michael did in her; she had never imagined that she was quite so beautiful before. Her eyes danced brightly with love and need--called for him, seduced him; she was joyously welcoming his touch, was facilitating in delight his every desire to be close to her. Her body was soft and inviting; everything about it begged for him, begged to be made whole by his touch . . . by his love. 

There was more to it than that, though. Michael began to nibble lightly down her neck, and she had to struggle to keep her eyes from closing at the incredible sensation. Her lover's eyes shone brightly at her--spoke of such intense love and desire. His touch was slow, sensuous, and fulfilling. It was so obvious that he *wanted* to touch her--wanted to touch this beautiful woman in the mirror, was obvious that she was the sole object of his desire and need. 

She moaned at their image. . . . God, he was so beautiful, as he touched her--his eyes showing such *life*. It was as though this gorgeous, talented, erotic man came alive only when he was with her--was as though he was truly conceived only in these perfect moments. 

She moaned again, watching them. There was no way she could ever describe the beauty which was the two of them together. She groaned once more. "Michael, I love you." 

He ceased his arousing devotions at her neck--devotions which had already sent heated waves of light into her soul--and raised his head to kiss her cheek. He met her eyes seriously. "And I love you, my angel." 

She moaned, and he turned her back toward himself to kiss her deeply, losing himself in the sweet depths of her mouth for several seconds. She moaned and held him to her. 

He half-opened his eyes momentarily to see himself holding Nikita close to him in a loving, erotic kiss. Her soft, beautiful body was pressed up to his devotedly, as she clung to him in the kiss. He moaned softly and pulled back from her, drawing his teeth gently over her bottom lip. She moaned, as well, as he released her--her tongue running out to taste him on her lips, a second after she lost him. 

He growled at the erotic sight, still holding her close. God, he wanted her so much, but he also wanted to give her more of this beautiful gift they had been sharing. 

He leaned in to kiss her softly. "Keep watching," he instructed her quietly. She moaned, as he breathed one more kiss over her lips, his tongue running out to taste them quickly. He then began to kiss his way over her cheek to proceed down her chin, licking small, wet kisses down the line of her throat. 

Her moan reverberated off his tongue, as her own image came into view again--this time in the other mirror. She saw Michael beginning his descent, beginning to work his slow, erotic way down her throat. She moaned at the sight, as he moved further down, coming to kiss lovingly down her breastbone. She was spellbound at the image: her beautiful, erotic lover was devoted entirely to her, was making her moan in his attentions. 

When he worked his way slowly over to capture her nipple, she moaned loudly. She missed his smile at her breast, too caught up in the sight before her. Her lover was bent over slightly, as he suckled her softly. Her hands were caught in his beautiful mass of shortened hair, holding him to her. . . . God, it was an erotic image. 

She again could finally see what Michael did in her, when he made love to her. Her eyes were wide--were so full of desire and need; her hands held him strongly to her, her whole body molded to his touch. Her mouth was open in a moan. . . . She had never seen a woman who looked so aroused before, . . . and she had never before imagined that the sight would be so captivatingly beautiful. 

She held him to her more strongly, and he grazed his teeth over her delicate bud. She moaned, as she saw her whole body jerk against him. Her arms held this beautiful man to her more strongly. "Michael, yes . . . more," she pleaded, her look so full of desire it almost frightened her. His hand came up to softly torment the neglected bud, and she cried out for more. 

She moaned, as he gave her what she had asked for--his devotions slightly rougher. She groaned loudly, but she wasn't entirely certain whether it were the aching, erotic warmth he was gifting her with or the image of the wanton, desperate woman in the mirror which aroused her more. 

Her hands ran more strongly through his hair, holding him insanely close to her--to his contented moan. She had always known that she was passionate, had known that her needs ran very deep, but she had never before imagined just how beautiful she was in her desire. . . . She could begin to see, ever so slightly, why he called her his angel; there *was* something holy in her desperate need to be made love to by him. 

She had no doubt at all that this was God's purpose--that the two of them *were* intended to be partners in life, in every sense. She was utterly certain that that divine spirit had given them all of their sensual faculties as a way to allow them to give each other intense, overwhelming pleasure. . . . She knew, at that moment, that they were intended to be one, that their bodies were--as he had so often said these past few days--molded simply for one another's joy. 

She moaned and shuddered slightly, as he ran his teeth back along her breast, giving its tip a small, goodbye lick. He then switched off his attentions--his mouth and his hand beginning to devote themselves to the beautiful buds they had previously ignored. 

"Michael," she moaned. The sensations he gave her were intense and wonderful. She held him tightly to her, as he moaned--loving her pleasure; his mouth and hand became rougher--to her pleased groan. 

She had no doubt that this was what they were created for--that they were made for each other's pleasure alone. She was certain, at the moment, that all of their sensual abilities were God's way of compensating for having trapped them in separate physical forms; she knew without a doubt that, could they both make it to heaven eventually, they would be able to spend the rest of eternity with their souls mingling . . . would be able to spend it in joy. 

************* 

She moaned again at the incredible sight before her and at her beautiful lover--her beautiful husband's--erotic skills. She leaned her head down to kiss the top of his twice. "I love you, Michael," she whispered. 

He groaned and ran his teeth back along her breast--to her deep groan. He pulled back from her--his tongue running over the very tip before standing up completely to pull her into a deep, erotic kiss--sharing all of his tenderness and desire with her there. 

She was moaning deeply, as he pulled back to look at her. He searched her eyes deeply and lovingly, as he spoke seriously, "And I love you, my Nikita." She moaned, and he nipped one more kiss over her lips before beginning to run soft, wet kisses over her throat and down her breastbone --starting to lower himself to his knees. "Now, watch yourself, as I explore my angel." 

She moaned at both his words and the loving look in his eyes; he was on his knees now, was running his arousing kisses down her stomach. "Mirror," he whispered huskily, as he paused--licking a line near her belly button. She moaned and did as he asked. 

When she did, too, she moaned again at the sight before her. The wild, wanton angel in front of her was being explored by another of her kind. The female angel's hands were in his hair, as he moved his sweet mouth further down her body. 

She jerked against him, when she felt his tongue delve into her belly button. She held him closer, moaning. "Yes . . . Michael," the female angel called to her partner. 

Michael's eyes were watching her face, as she took in her own reflection. He felt the reverberation of her moan, as the tip of his tongue explored what had once been her lifeline to her mother--a lifeline which had been temporary and all too fallible. 

He placed his whole mouth over the area, suckling her there, his tongue sending lovely shards of pleasure into her soul. He felt, in this moment--as he watched the beautiful, divine creature who stood above him--that neither of them had ever had another true connection in their lives before; they had both been born solely for this moment--for this love. 

His hands stroked down her back to caress her soft curves, and he saw her breathing escalate sharply. He smiled, enjoying connecting with her in this way, enjoying his exploration of the remains of the lifeline which had been such a lie for her. 

She felt it too, knew what he was doing. He was--once again--healing her old wounds, the wounds of her birth and childhood. He was--symbolically--establishing a truer bond between the two of them, one which was far more real than any bonds they had ever had to family. This one, after all, was a bond of souls--was a bond God had created before time. . . . Nothing else could ever be as real. 

She moaned at his message and his touch, "Michael." He began to massage her soft curves even more erotically, and she groaned. Her eyes looked at the back of her reflection--taking advantage of the placement of the mirrors to watch his hands caress her from behind. My God . . . he was *so* erotic. 

He saw her breathing escalate further, and he smiled against her skin. He placed one more tantalizing kiss against her here and then began to move down her abdomen. 

His tongue stroked tempting little lines over her skin. She moaned loudly and refocused on the image of his descent. 

Her heartbeat was thundering. She saw the male angel's mouth descend upon his partner's body, moving ever closer to the center of her desires. His hands held onto her hips to steady her, as he breathed a puff of air against her tender flesh. 

The female angel was spread to receive him; her eyes were wide with desire and anticipation. She heard him groan, and then the female angel's lips opened to cry out in joy and need, as her partner's wonderful tongue stroked in to run just over the small bud of her need. 

She closed her eyes for a second, her head back, before she could refocus on the image in front of her. She could see herself trembling with pleasure, as Michael's tongue began to lick little lines of desire over her needy bud. Her eyes were wide and desperate, her hips rocking against him. She was moaning insanely. 

"Mmm," Michael moaned, as he began to suckle on her tempting little bud. He loved so dearly being able to please her--loved knowing that he was sending an aching wave of need into her. 

He groaned again, suckling her more firmly, when she held his head more strongly to herself. Her whole body was quaking with need, as she let out moaning screams of desire. . . . God, she was erotic. 

Nikita saw her eyes tearing with overwhelming arousal. She saw the intense, desperate look on her own face--a look that begged for release. Her back was arching her against her lover; her whole body was taut and trembling--her aroused, needy breasts swelling in desire. 

She had never imagined seeing a woman in such intense, erotic need. Part of her allowed herself to understand what it was that Michael saw when he made love to her--what it was which aroused him so deeply. Her passion, her shaking arousal, her beautiful body aching to be touched--all of them were part of what made him so desperate for her; in some part of her, she began to understand how he could feel righteously egotistical about pleasing so deeply the beautiful woman she saw before her. 

The tip of his tongue was beating a pattern into her bud, as she trembled against him. Neither one of them were certain just how much longer she could continue to stand. 

He decided, therefore, not to risk it. He took a firm hold on her hips and began to lower her over him, as he lay back on the bed. His mouth never lost contact with her tender flesh. 

She moaned desperately, understanding what they were doing. She watched their entire descent with widened eyes, her mouth open in a gasp. She couldn't stop letting out little gasping moans. 

He never ceased suckling her firmly. When he was finally lying back on the bed with his beloved poised, kneeling above him--her hands holding her up, as she leaned forward onto the bed, he bounced her bud strongly against his tongue once--starting off an astonishing cascade of fulfillment for her. 

Nikita moaned loudly above him, still watching herself in the mirror. She saw herself crouched above her lover--his perfect mouth having just given her the final, incredible stroke she needed. 

Her face was twisted slightly with pleasure, her mouth open. Her back arched--her head falling back slightly, as she let out an intense, screaming moan. The warmth he had given her ran deep inside her--calling to her depths, making her tremble for him. 

"Michael . . . more," she begged, as he stroked her tender bud through her release. He adored this--was loving giving her this sort of aching arousal. 

Once the crest of her ecstasy had passed, and she was trembling above him, he released her tender bud with a light stroke of his teeth and a soothing lap of his tongue. He heard her moan deeply, and he moved to begin to explore her further. 

He delved his tongue just into the perfect flower of her arousal. She was moaning rhythmically, her hips beginning to stroke over him. He started a soft pattern just inside her, as she helped meet him in it. 

Tears of pleasure and desire ran down her face. She could barely stand to focus on her image. The woman in the mirror looked *so* desperate and wanton, as her hips rode over her lover's perfect tongue--his hands helping to guide her, as he willingly--happily took part in her arousal. 

Her hands dug into the mattress, as she watched and felt their desire building. If she looked at the reflection from the mirror behind her, she could see her angelic lover's thickened, throbbing need for her bobbing strongly with his desire. It aroused her unspeakably that his attentions to her made him so increasingly desperate for her. . . . She couldn't wait to return his loving attentions back to him--couldn't wait to show him just how beautiful his desire was. 

Michael's tongue began stroking his pattern much more deeply in her. She whimpered and refocused on the sight in front of her; her attentions to him would have to wait. 

He sensed her ever-escalating desire and moved his devotions further in. He loved her taste, loved her sounds, loved the wonderful scent of her arousal. He wanted to baptize himself in them--to be reborn as her lover alone. . . . There was nothing else on this planet which could ever have more meaning than this. 

She moaned at the feeling of his tongue stroking deep inside her. Its tantalizing combination of softness and firmness confounded her senses, overrode all logic. She was bound entirely to the feeling of him inside her. . . . God, she loved him. 

The feelings he was giving her quaked within her. The woman in the mirror's eyes grew wider--enraptured and overwhelmed. He was helping her hips ride him more firmly, as he moaned beneath her. 

His moan almost undid her. The fact that he was loving this arousal as much as she was--that this was *his* desire, as well as hers, made her insane for him. 

She leaned up--her weight on her knees, her hips still riding over him. He moaned more loudly as she came into view--the beautiful length of her body towering sensually above him. 

She grabbed onto his forearms at her hips to steady herself, as she rode. His tongue hit her more deeply--its tantalizing arousal making her depths tremble for him--poising her half a second from release. 

They both moaned, as she looked down to focus on him. "Michael," she moaned, her eyes devoted to his soul. He let out a groan and pulled her more roughly against him--hitting a tenderly-aroused spot in her deeply, his nose stroking against her needy bud. 

"Ahhh!" she cried out, half a heartbeat before she fell forward onto her hands again. Her pleasure rippled through her in quaking waves. 

She forced her eyes open to watch her own release. She saw before her a holy sight; a combination of wildness and purity shone in her eyes--reflected back at her all the beauty in her soul. 

She groaned loudly. The image was amazing. It was hard for her to believe that this was the same face--the same body she saw reflected in her mirror every day. This woman seemed transformed--seemed ringed with light. . . . She could understand her beautiful lover's devotion to her now; she was a dangerously erotic sight. 

Her angelic lover continued to taste her, as her climax sang through her. He loved the beauty of her release; he could imagine nothing more arousing. 

She moaned at the way he continued to stroke through her. Her eyes watched him in the mirror behind her. His arousal was even larger, more desperate than before. His muscles were straining with the difficulty of holding himself back. . . . He needed to be inside her so badly. 

She moaned again, shuddering at the last warm waves of her release. The sight of him--the feel of his mouth upon her was quickly changing her pleasure into insane desire. His arousal seemed to call for her. . . . She wanted so badly to show him the same amazing truths he had allowed her. 

"Michael, I love you," she moaned, as she finally pulled herself off of him. He moaned at the loss. 

She moved herself down to lie on top of him and kissed him deeply. His hot, heavy arousal beat furiously against her, as he groaned. 

He broke from the kiss to look at her, his eyes pleading. "I need you now," he begged. His hand stroked over her cheek. 

She smiled at him and kissed his palm. "Soon, my love." She kissed his lips lightly, pulling back before he could catch her in it. "My angel," she smiled. He groaned deeply in response, and her smile deepened. "First, I have to show you something." 

He moaned, not wanting to wait. He could see her determination, however, and knew an argument would be useless and petty. He pulled her in to kiss her once more, losing himself in her depths for a minute. 

When she pulled back finally, she could see the fear in his eyes--his belief that he wasn't worthy of this treatment she was about to give him, this healing. She smiled tenderly at him and stroked over his cheek. "You're my angel, Michael." She leaned in to kiss him briefly before pulling back. "My beautiful, sweet husband." 

He moaned, not believing, and she leaned in to kiss him gently once more before retreating. A soft smile lit her face, as she looked at him lovingly for a few more seconds. Then her eyes searched up the bed, and she reached up--coming back to him with two large pillows. 

Her smile warmed his soul--melting away all of the fringes of ice he so often ringed it with. "I love you, Michael." She pulled him toward her by his shoulder, placing the pillows beneath his head and back, propping him up slightly. "Now," her eyes were very serious, "I need you to accept that." 

She looked over to the mirror near them to guide his eyes, and he moaned loudly at their reflection. The mirror was slightly to his side, so he had to turn his head to look in it, but he had a clear view of her sweet length pressed along his. 

She had positioned him so that he could watch himself, as she loved him. He moaned even more loudly, too, when he noticed that he could see a reflection of them in the mirror behind his head, as well. Right now, it allowed him to see her beautiful face, as it smiled beatifically at him. 

He moaned again, his eyes meeting hers in the reflections. He felt unworthy of this, it was true, but he was also desperate to share this with her. "Yes," he told her warm eyes. 

She smiled back at him, even more deeply. "Watch yourself, Michael. See how beautiful my angel truly is." 

He moaned at her words, and she leaned down to kiss his lips lightly once more before she began her slow arousal of him. His moan deepened, as he felt her lips exploring their way across his stubbled cheek and over to his ear. 

"`Kita," he groaned, as she lightly traced the outline of his ear with her tongue. The soft sensations were overwhelming for him. His hands stretched across her back, holding her to him. 

"Mmm," she moaned, as she began to run her tongue down to his earlobe. "Watch yourself, my sweet Michael," she whispered, kissing the soft shell which held her words, before she ran her teeth over his earlobe. 

"Ohhhh," he moaned. The sight of her stretched along him was almost too erotic to bear. His head was turned, allowing him to watch her devotions to his soft lobe. "`Kita, yes," he whispered, as she began suckling the lobe. 

The sight of her was almost too much. She was so beautiful, so erotic, so perfect. His eyes went to her reflection in the other mirror. He could see the soft smile on her face--her pleasure in her gentle arousal of him. He groaned. . . . God . . . he didn't know how to withstand the beauty of it. 

She moaned happily, feeling his emotions. She began moving down slowly--tracing a line with her soft, wet kisses from just behind his ear to his jaw line. His hands were unconsciously massaging her back in response. 

She smiled against him. "Mmm, you taste wonderful, Michael," she taunted him. She was pleased when she heard his loud groan. 

He was moaning beneath her, as her teeth began to nip lightly over his neck. "Oh God, yes," he moaned. She was so beautiful in her devotions to him. He just couldn't believe that he had been blessed with so spiritual, so arousing a creature of light. 

She placed a suckling bite against a tender spot on his neck, and he groaned desperately. She raised her head to meet his eyes in the mirror. "Watch *yourself*, Michael," she ordered quietly. 

He groaned. He could see no reason to do that. *She* held all of their beauty, not him. "`Kita," he pleaded. 

She shook her head. "No arguments." Her eyes were serious. She waited until she saw his unhappy agreement, before she returned to her arousal at his neck. 

He hadn't wanted to agree, of course, but he was determined, during their final encounter here, that he would do nothing to upset her. Reluctantly, then, he shifted his gaze off of her and onto himself. 

As soon as he did, he felt her teeth nip more strongly at a tender, needy spot, and he groaned--his desire building further. He held her head to him desperately, as he began to search his own eyes, trying to comprehend what it was she saw in him. 

He was met in the mirror, however, by green fire--by a look of desire which dissolved into intense hatred at the sight of the man who was receiving his beloved's sweet attentions. The unworthy bastard stared back at him, as his angel served *him*. 

She felt him tense and understood some part of the conflict which he was undergoing. It was why she wanted him to watch. He needed to accept the beauty in himself; if he denied it too far, after all, she was afraid that it would die from neglect. 

She coaxed a moan from him with a small bite to a very tender spot and then began licking little lines over the needy places on his neck, between her words. "You're beautiful, my sweet husband." She suckled softly at a spot for a second. "That sensual, inviting man in the mirror is the man I love." 

He swallowed heavily, holding her close to him. His arousal throbbed insanely against her. He searched the bastard's eyes again. "Why?" 

She ran her tongue over another tender spot on his neck, to his involuntary erotic shudder. "Because I can please him so well." 

She was suckling a new spot, as he groaned. "You could please anyone," he managed finally. 

Her teeth ran over the spot, to another of his groans. "Physically, maybe," she conceded. She leaned her head up to suckle at the underside of his jaw. "But do you feel this, Michael?" She released him there with a small stroke of her teeth and moved quickly down his body, stopping at the nipple over his heart. 

He gasped, as she began suckling him there. The feeling sang in his blood, ran through his body in waves of light. "`Kita," he moaned desperately. 

She ran her tongue over him several times before releasing him briefly. Her eyes met his in the mirror momentarily. "That's not just physical, and you know it," she challenged. Her eyes were simultaneously a little harsh and very tender, as she pressed home her point. "You're the only one whose *soul* I can ever please, Michael." Her eyes softened more. "You're the only one whose soul I *want* to please." 

He moaned deeply, knowing--despite his attempts at denial--that this was true. "Look at yourself, my love," she directed him softly. Reluctantly, he did, focusing in on those damn eyes. "Those are the eyes of my angel." Her hands stroked softly over his chest. "Those are the eyes which capture my soul." 

He moaned at her words, beginning to lose his battle. She dipped her head back to his neck again and suckled him once more, as he held her to him. "Feel my love for you, my sweet Michael." Her mouth moved to the crook of his neck for a few seconds. "Only you will ever know it." Her teeth ran over him. "Only you can ever understand it." 

She suckled him for a minute, as he groaned and searched his own eyes for the man she had described. He wanted so desperately to deny that this side of him existed, but her devotions were singing through him--were making his denials difficult. "Only my angel can ever deserve my love, Michael," she whispered before beginning to kiss down his chest. 

He moaned, still watching his own eyes. He found it *so* hard to accept her words--to accept her love. But--at the same time--he could *feel* the truth of it, knew that his angel wouldn't lie to him here. 

He kissed the top of her head, as she descended his body. "`Kita, I love you," he sighed softly. 

She ran her tongue down his breastbone, to his delighted shudder. She could feel his emotions for her flowing toward her. "I know that, my love." She took the nipple she had previously ignored in her mouth for a second, running her erotic warmth over him before releasing him. "Now watch the pleasure I give you." 

He moaned, as she began suckling him. The man he was trying to accept as himself stared from the mirror at him, his eyes holding such intense need. They were begging for love and comfort--for his angel's love and comfort. 

He held her head to him, as she suckled him more firmly. He moaned loudly, his mouth open to pant slightly. The poor bastard in the mirror was aching to be healed, was begging to be saved by his tender-hearted angel. 

He saw it all in his eyes--saw all of the pain and torment the poor son-of-a-bitch in front of him had undergone for so many years--the constant eating away of his soul that his cruel masters had seen to. He wanted help so badly, needed it so desperately. He could only be saved by the beautiful angel who now aroused his soul. . . . Without her, he was irretrievably lost. 

He moaned, his eyes tearing, his heart suddenly overflowing with pity for the man who had so foolishly given up his soul so long ago. He held his angel to him more tightly, as she began to run her teeth lightly up and down his nipple. "God,`Kita . . . I love you," he sighed from his soul. 

She let go of this bud with a tender suck and stroked her tongue over to run an identical suck up its twin. "And I love you, my sweet one," she said devotedly to his eyes in the mirror. She began to move down his stomach and abdomen with soft, wet kisses, working down toward his aching shaft. 

Right now, though, that wasn't what he wanted. "No, `Kita," he stopped her. 

She looked back up to him, and their eyes met in the mirror. She was slightly to his side, her hand running up his aroused length. "Why not?" 

He saw and felt her perfect hand ascend him, and he shuddered. He refocused on her eyes directly, without the mirrors' help. "Because I need you," his eyes begged. "Please." He stroked her cheek with one hand while taking her hand from him with the other--bringing it to his lips. He placed a tender kiss on her palm. "Take me into you." His eyes were so needy. "Heal me." 

************ "Michael," she moaned. She lay back down on top of him to capture him in a deep, erotic kiss. 

He held her to him, as they explored each other tenderly. He may not have seen entirely what she wanted him to in the mirror, but he had understood there a deeper truth: He needed her. . . . His soul needed her. It was only in her that he understood beauty--was only in her that he comprehended love. 

He kissed her more deeply, more tenderly, as he held her to him. She moaned, and he returned it instinctively. She was absolutely sacred to him--was the embodiment of everything divine and holy. He needed her to be whole--he needed to give himself to her, to devotedly please her, in order to be healed. Without her, there was nothing--just an empty, useless husk . . . just darkness. 

He began to pull back from the kiss, running several more, little kisses over her lips as he did so. His eyes locked to hers, praying that she would understand. His hand stroked her cheek. "I love you so much, Nikita." He searched her eyes devotedly. "No matter what comes, my soul is always yours." 

"Michael," she sighed. She rubbed her cheek over his palm tenderly. She drew him up toward her. "Please," her eyes begged him, as well, "make love to me." 

"`Kita," he moaned, taking her in his arms. He just wasn't feeling feral enough to take the lead this time. He searched her eyes lovingly, seeing that they were both feeling rather fragile. He drew her into another deep, soft kiss. 

She moaned, as he pulled back several heartbeats later. "I want to make love *with* you," he answered her finally. 

She let out a deep, gasping moan. Her eyes were locked to his, were completely devoted. "Yes, Michael," she moaned. "Please, yes." 

He drew her into another deep kiss, while they both began to shift themselves--positioning her just above his throbbing shaft. They let go of the kiss with a moan, as he held himself just at her entrance. Their eyes had tears in them, as they searched deeply into each other's souls. 

The love and desire they found there almost overwhelmed them. They felt like they were connected in waves of light. 

The feeling of his shaft just at her entrance set them both on edge. His huge head throbbed against her slick velvet, tempting them both unspeakably. 

Their breathing was erratic, their gaze locked together unbreakably. Their warm breath shuddered over one another's faces, as they began to lower her over him. 

"Ah!" she cried out, as she began to take him in. He was so thick; he stretched her walls so perfectly. . . . There would never be any other man who could feel like this. 

"Uhhh," he moaned, as he began to enter her. Her tight, silken walls wrapped around him, enclosed him--sheltered him perfectly. His shaft jerked slightly, as he pushed in further. . . . God, she was an angel. 

"Ohhhhh," she moaned, closing her eyes, as he slid further into her. 

"No," he moaned, stopping his entry, his hand on her face. "Please." 

She forced her eyes open, her look apologizing. His eyes met hers deeply, stroking over her soul. 

He pulled her head toward him, drawing her into a deep, arousing kiss. Then, he began to slide further into her again. 

They moaned, as they held each other tightly in the kiss. The sensations of his entry were so intense. They were both shuddering, were sharing all of their devotion to one another--were making certain that they both understood the beauty of every wonderful, advancing inch of their connection. 

They groaned, as his huge length pushed further into her--remolding her tight, wet walls to his generous contours. Their kiss became more intense, each of them whimpering, desperate to share every astonishing second of sensation with the other. 

When she was only about an inch from covering him completely, she leaned back from the kiss on an intense moan. He was already so deep inside her--had already filled her so perfectly. She wasn't sure how she would take the rest of him, but she was aching and desperate to try. 

She moaned, watching him, as he held her hips. He ran in and out of her in little short thrusts, stretching her to take him in completely. 

She was moaning insanely, watching his desperate gaze--his little gasps of pleasure, as she took him further in. . . . She loved the feeling of being remolded by his beautiful length--loved the wholeness of their union. 

He moaned, as well, when he had almost stretched her to cover him completely. There were tears in his eyes; the feeling of her wrapped around him was overwhelming his senses. He could no longer think or live outside of her, in this moment. The only reality he could ever comprehend was his insatiable love for her--his hunger for her soul. 

They both paused for a second, eyes locked together, before they gave the final stroke to complete their union. With that deep stroke, they both quaked slightly--all of the hunger and need for each other suddenly being reborn into aching life. 

They could feel it boiling through them, setting them aflame. They needed one another like they needed their hearts to pump blood through their veins; without each other, they would be unspeakably empty. 

They were caught in that look for a few seconds, unable to move, overwhelmed simply by the connection. Finally, though, one word rose from the depths of Nikita's soul. "Michael." Her eyes were completely devoted to him. 

That one word set him aflame. He needed to possess her--to capture her completely. He needed to scald her with his passion and have her scream in pleasure from the flames. 

"`Kita," his voice growled at her. His hands ran up to her shoulders, and he leaned her back onto the mattress--taking up a dominant position, his eyes burning into her. 

Her legs wrapped around him, while she gave in willingly--happily. "Michael . . . yes," she moaned. 

He began to give her deep, powerful thrusts, while he held onto her shoulders. He was drunk with his need--addicted to her pleasure. He wanted to feel her tremors of ecstasy more desperately than he could ever possibly explain. 

His eyes burned into her, as she moaned--loving the dominating, inflamed look in his eyes. He was stroking roughly half-way through her each time, connecting intensely with her core on each thrust--sheathing his huge length completely within her silk with every one, as she moaned insanely. 

His voice was very gruff, when he spoke. His eyes made damn sure she believed him. "I'm not the angel you've called me, Nikita." He pumped himself roughly into her depths, as she moaned gravelly, her hands clawing his shoulders. "You've brought a demon to your bed." His hands ran down to hold onto her hips, as he beat into her brutally--her moans of pleasure escalating his need desperately. "But I'm a demon who'll make damn sure you're satisfied." 

"Mi . . . chael," she gasped out. She wanted to contradict his pessimistic self-assessment, but the intense, sensual fire he was creating within her was canceling out all higher thought. 

He smiled ferally down at her, growling slightly. He loved *all* of her words, but making her nonverbal with pleasure made his blood boil. 

He took hold of her hips more firmly, bruising them slightly with his touch. He rammed his hard length harshly inside of her--rubbing roughly against a spot he knew she adored. 

"Ahhhh!" she cried. Her legs moved further up his back. She was utterly lost to his ministrations--was desperate to be taken by him. His incredible, ruthless strokes were creating a fire so intense within her, she wasn't sure she would survive it. 

Her hands were clawing at his shoulders. "That's it, my love," his eyes burned at her. "Mark me." His smile and his strokes were brutal and deep; she whimpered. "Let me know I'm yours." 

"Uhhhh," she moaned. Her nails dug further into his back--not following his words as much as simply unable to let go. 

He growled and threw his head back, breaking eye contact momentarily. He began riding her much deeper in, his shaft even larger than when they had started and utterly ruthless. "Yessss," he growled. 

He refocused on and licked his lips at her. His shaft was beating furiously, deep within her--was completely echoing his feral desire for her. 

He wanted to feel the sting of her nails, wanted to be marked by her. He growled, as he commanded her, "Punish me." He beat into her very roughly. "Punish me for all I've done." 

She was giving moaning screams, her nails clawing deep into his back, as he growled out for more. She couldn't help it; she just let him go. "Miiiii," she tried to get out. 

"Mmmmm," he growled, his head back for a second again. "Yes." He refocused on her, leaning in very close to her, riding her more deeply. "My sweet angel punishes her demon well." 

She couldn't give any sort of coherent response. She was his to do with as he wanted; her need wouldn't even let her think. "Ahh-Ahhh-Ahhhhh!" she moaned. 

He growled roughly and took hold of her thighs, breaking her hold on his waist. "Mmmm," he moaned again, still smiling dangerously at her. "Let's see what sort of punishment I can give you in return." 

He pushed her legs up her body, until the backs of her thighs were running along his chest, her calves riding down his back. "Let's see if I can prove what a demon I am." 

She let out a moaning scream. The position made him push himself so much harder into her--made her so much tighter around his wonderful, thick shaft. 

Her head was back, her eyes closed, as she trembled beneath him. . . . Oh God, he felt *so* good. With some tiny bit of conscious mind she had left, she decided that--if demons felt like this, hell must have a *very* large female population. 

He growled loudly at the look on her face. God, he loved her so much. His need for her burned perilously inside him. 

His hands came up to hold her face, as she refocused on him, tears of need and pleasure running down her cheeks. He had grown much larger within her with the friction of their new position; the sensation burned through his hot blood and into the rest of his body. 

She was letting out whimpering moans at his growth--at his wonderful, deep strokes. Her eyes gave up her soul to him, let him in to everything she was or would ever be. 

"`Kita," he gasped, looking in her eyes. He could see there everything he had ever wanted: a strong, intelligent, challenging partner; a soft, tender-hearted, fun-loving friend; a sensitive, sensual, perilously arousing and fulfilling lover . . . the wife of his heart . . . the future mother of his beloved children. 

He was lost in her loving gaze, his strokes still incredibly deep but less brutal now, his desires softening. His thumbs stroked away her tears, as he searched her face. 

"My love is too brutal to deserve you," he whispered, his thrusts a deep, warm, erotic fire in her absolute core--stroking perfectly against a tender, incredibly sensitized spot. He stopped her from objecting to his words by continuing his thought. "I am a demon, my love," he kissed away her tears softly, "but you're my savior." He kissed over her face. "You're my passion and my life." 

He pressed his lips to hers tenderly before pulling back. Their eyes were locked to each other's completely; they were focused on the absolute depths of one another's souls. 

His deep thrusts aroused her most tender spot unspeakably, rapidly--his large head stroking over it perfectly. She was quaking slightly below him, only several seconds away from release. 

His shaft trembled within her, as well, every tiny fragment of its length completely inside her. Its unspeakably sensitized desire was caressed by her heavenly softness, as he stroked her, deeply and slightly roughly. 

"I love you, my `Kita," he said finally, as he beat four hard, incredible strokes against the tremblingly needy spot. 

"Ah!" she cried, becoming overwhelmed, beginning to shake. 

His hand stroked away a tear, as she trembled--on the edge. "You . . . only you make me an angel." He kissed lightly at her lips, as she quaked softly beneath him--clinging to her control by her fingertips. 

His eyes were connected completely with hers. "Now," he whispered against her lips. "Save me." His shaft connected with a sweet brutality against her incredibly needy core once more. 

She began convulsing beneath him, crying out dementedly. Her eyes closed for a second, tears of fulfillment streaming down her cheeks, before she looked back at him again. 

She was bucking against him furiously, uncontrollably--her walls tightening unspeakably around his beautifully tortured shaft. Her look held every emotion of her life. "Michael, I love you," she moaned out, before she bucked instinctively at him once more, her release overwhelming her, her walls unbearably tight around his trembling length. 

The words and the sensation were too much. "Ohhhhhh," he groaned. His eyes gave her possession of his soul. "`Kiiiiiiii-taaaaaaa." A shared heartbeat later, his shaft forced his warmth deep inside her. 

They both groaned at the sensation, her walls encouraging his release--draining him of his sweet warmth. He took her legs off his shoulders, and she wrapped them tightly around his waist again. 

They clung to each other, their tender needs pressed together deeply--their backs arched, and drew one another into a deep, intense kiss--sharing all of their love and desire in it. They both moaned. 

They mingled their souls together for several more minutes, both of them overwhelmed by the light which ran through them. They could each almost feel their partner's angelic wings wrap around them, making them whole and complete. 

The kiss became softer--their tongues exploring gently, as their bodies continued to tremble against each other's. Their hands framed one another's faces; each of them were lost in the tenderness and depth of their emotions. 

They felt whole here--completed. There were no boundaries between them anymore; their bodies shared the final, shuddering throes of their intense, joint ecstasy, while their spirits wrapped themselves around and through each other, mingling them strongly into one. 

It was many minutes later when they finally parted from the kiss, pulling back from it with a gasp--once more forced to divide themselves into their separate bodies. They had both been crying for many minutes. Their hands ran up to stroke the other's tears away, their eyes still captivated--still holding one another's souls. 

Michael examined her face with inexpressible depths of love. "Mon ange," he breathed. For the first time in more years than he could recall, he felt that he might remember who he had once been--felt that he could remember some of the fragments of tenderness that existed in his soul before he, Rene', and Section had--intentionally or not--stomped them out. 

She smiled at him. She had never heard him speak in his native language before, except when it was necessary for a mission. He had repressed everything about that side of himself--about that lifetime, until now. 

Now, however--with his `Kita's help, he was whole once more. Now, he could remember--at least in his soul--all of who he was now--all of who he had been. 

His eyes held depths of love for her which could never be completely expressed. She had given him the most precious gift she ever possibly could--himself. . . . She truly was his savior. 

[End of Part 16] 

************* 

The night seemed to pass too quickly. They had been so happy for so long--for an eternity in Section . . . an entire week; it simply seemed unfair that it should come to an end. 

They weren't sleeping quite as deeply or soundly as they had been for their past few nights together, unfortunately. Even on a subconscious level, they realized that their days of fragile, healing peace were coming to a close. 

The two soul-satisfied and completed lovers had curled around each other and nestled themselves together under the sheets, once they had finally stopped trembling from their last, overwhelming release. As they slept, however, all of the old nightmares returned--much stronger than usual, this time. . . . The moans which rose from them, as they dreamt, were not ones of pleasure. 

Michael awoke from a nightmare of loss and blood to hear Nikita whimpering in pain near him. It took him a second to realize that it was only a nightmare she was suffering from. 

He pulled back from her just a bit and took her face in his hands. "`Kita," he whispered hoarsely. His thumbs stroked her cheeks; he leaned in to kiss away the tears from her frightened and unhappy features. "`Kita, wake up." He continued kissing her face, as his hand began brushing down her back. 

She awoke with a moan, her breathing labored. When she opened her eyes, it took her a second to really focus on him--to believe what she saw. "Michael?" Her hand went to his face, her thumb rubbing away his tears. 

He blinked at her slightly. He hadn't realized before that he had been crying. 

He took her hand in his, however, and kissed its palm--warmly and passionately, before putting it back on his cheek--holding it there. "It's me, my love." He turned his head to kiss her palm once more. "It's me." 

She sighed deeply, calming slightly; her heart stopped hammering. She took another deep breath before she leaned in to kiss him briefly, pulling back a second later to look at him. "Michael," she sighed, her eyes warm but sad. She swallowed heavily. 

"Yes," he sighed, as well, as he examined her a few seconds longer. . . . She was so beautiful. It hurt him terribly that this was their last morning together--that they wouldn't be able to spend the rest of their days just holding each other close, reveling in their beloved's warmth. 

He was breathing a bit more quickly, his need for her building intensely; there were so many fears left in him--was still so much unresolved between them. He swallowed heavily, as he reached out to stroke over her cheek. It tormented him that there wasn't enough time for them--that fate, or at least Section, seemed determined to separate them. 

His heart was beginning to pound, his breathing shallow, as he searched her eyes. He needed her to know--needed her to understand the truth of their linked souls: neither of them would--it was impossible that either of them *could*--ever belong to anyone but each other. 

His loving eyes watched her for one more heartbeat, before he leaned in to capture her in a deep, tender kiss. She groaned and clung to him, holding him in it, as they explored each other there--each of them drawing intense comfort from the love they could feel in one another's souls. 

The simple knowledge of what the day would bring to them made their souls raw with pain. They held each other even closer, needing that comfort--that sense of healing they found only in one another--desperately. 

Neither of them wanted to move from the other--ever. The healing of the embrace, of their tender search of each other was too beautiful to lose. . . . It was as though they thought that--if they didn't break from one another here, they would never have to let go in any other way--they would never have to leave. 

They both moaned and held each other even closer--their need and desire raging. Michael rolled over to lay himself on top of her, his shaft alive and in need within her once again; Nikita moaned more loudly and wrapped her legs around him, desperate to feel him stroking her--needing, more than she could express, to become whole with him once more. 

They both knew this wouldn't be slow, knew--in a way, with their current time constraints--that it couldn't be. . . . But there was no way they were going to give up this one last chance to connect--to be one. 

He pulled his now-huge, thickened length almost out of her, slowly, before stroking it completely back into her tight, silken walls--into the depths which seemed molded for him alone. A rumbling groan sounded from his chest, as he did. She felt *so* good, so . . . *right*; he had never been more convinced of the beauty and correctness of his actions before. 

She broke the kiss on a deep moan to lean her head back into the mattress. He felt so perfect; he seemed to stroke both her body and soul. She knew, without question, that there was no other man who could ever feel the way that he did; no other man could *fill* her like he did. . . . No other man could even come close. 

He ran his hands down to her hips and held on to them, as he gave her long, deep strokes, commanding her aroused depths to perfection. He watched her face--enraptured, intent on the look of incredible desire which was surrounded by her echoing moans. 

He stroked her a little harder, growing further within her, groaning himself. Her moans grew louder, her mouth open as she cried out, her head still back--eyes closed. He hit her core roughly and she moaned more loudly, followed by the unconscious stroke of her tongue along her upper lip. 

That one move made him lose his grip on control--on sanity. He needed her *so* desperately; every cell in his body was alight and trembling with his fierce desire to bring her pleasure. 

He groaned loudly and lowered his head to her exposed throat, running little licks and nips along it. Meanwhile, his hands grew rougher on her hips, as he changed the angle of his strokes to run down an incredibly-needy wall, hitting an achingly-sensitized spot within her. 

She moaned deeply in response, her body shaking with her need and arousal. Her legs were wrapped tightly around him, her heels crossed and helping to push him roughly into her. One hand clung to his back, as the other ran through his hair. 

Her back was arched, as she met his every deep stroke. She was savoring the incredible feeling of him stretching her--of his perfect shaft commanding her mercilessly. "Yes . . . yes . . . Michael," she moaned. 

He groaned wildly at her and began nibbling down the sensitive spots on her neck. His shaft twitched and grew even larger inside of her. He began stroking her even more roughly. . . . There was just never enough of her. 

She cried out in need, her hand clawing into his shoulder. His body felt so perfect on top of hers--his soft skin, his tight muscles stroking along all of her softnesses. But that was nothing compared to his incredible strokes. "Oh Michael," she moaned, "Michael, harder." 

He obliged, increasing his thrusts; he still stroked through the whole of her with each one, but he got faster, hitting her desperate core harder. He was moaning, growling ferally, as he began to bite at her neck in just the way she needed. 

"Ohhhhhh," she groaned out. Her hands began to run up and down his back, leaving light red lines. 

He growled and twitched within her again, as she groaned out a half-scream. "Yes, more . . . more!" she cried. 

He got rougher; the feeling shuddered through her passionately. "Oh God, yes," her tiny voice breathed. She leaned her head back further, licking her lips. 

God, he needed her; his entire body felt inflamed with his aching desire. He was truly beginning to feel--to fear that he didn't exist without her. 

He groaned deeply, as he bit her neck once more and began moving down her again, his tongue tracing down her breastbone. She was moaning insanely, while he groaned in response. 

His sense of sanity . . . his very soul depended on pleasing her, on making her happy. He was crying slightly, as he moved over to take her nipple in his mouth. 

He suckled her perfectly, occasionally running his teeth over her aroused bud. She felt his tears along with the devastating arousal of his mouth; his incredible strokes continued in her--rough and deep. "Michael," she cried in a sobbing voice, tears running down her cheeks. 

Her legs wrapped tightly around his waist. Her hands ran into his hair, holding him to her breast, while she moaned with the sensation. "Oh, God, Michael, I love you," she whimpered. She leaned forward to kiss his hair softly. 

He twitched again--growing to an almost painful degree, for himself, within her. His need for her boiled through his blood, through his soul; it threatened every sense of identity he had ever had, . . . but he knew now that they were all meaningless. He would have willingly--would have happily--given them all up just to be part of her. 

He ran his teeth over her nipple with just the slightly-rough pressure she needed, lapping his tongue over it several times just afterward. He then began to run wet, hard kisses up her body, savoring her taste, as he moved. 

She was whimpering desperately, by the time he reached her face again. His strokes were short--were incredibly deep within her core, the huge head rubbing against her most needy spot. She opened her eyes to look at him, as she whimpered, her body trembling--on the edge of ecstasy; her look was utterly devoted and overwhelmed. 

He took her face in his hands, as he searched her eyes deeply. He had to tell her how much he cared; he needed to sear into her soul his complete devotion to her. 

Their looks were completely connected, Nikita's eyes waiting--enraptured--for his words. "I love you, Nikita." He moved himself even further into her, stroking her so deeply she was shaking; he leaned down to lightly brush away her tears with the tip of his tongue. 

"Michael," she breathed, her hands clawing into his shoulders. She was shaking, was poised so close to the edge of ecstasy that it was threatening her sense of sanity, but he wasn't yet allowing her to fall into it. 

He refocused on her, as her eyes were enraptured--awaiting his words. His deep strokes trembled through her warmly. 

He kissed her softly, before pulling back to look at her lovingly again. His thumb stroked over her cheek. He was so aroused and close to release that he was almost in pain, but he simply couldn't let go quite yet. 

He was shaking slightly, as he held back his need. "My whole life begins and ends with you," he whispered. His hand cupped her cheek, his eyes soulful--connecting with her completely. "I only know ecstasy when you smile; I only feel pleasure when you love me." He began stroking her a little harder, as she closed her eyes briefly--on a whimpering moan, before refocusing on him. 

He gave a smile which held a dozen different emotions; his eyes begged for her understanding, his thumb stroking her cheek. "I never want to hurt you again." He swallowed heavily. "I never want you to understand pain again." 

His strokes were connecting with her so perfectly that she was shaking even more desperately. She closed her eyes again, bathing herself in his words, unable to withstand the--emotional and physical--sensual overload of focusing on him. 

He let her, understanding. He was still watching her face, enraptured. "You are *so* beautiful, my `Kita--body and soul. My soul belongs to you forever." His strokes connected slightly more roughly with her, as she quaked beneath him. 

He breathed a kiss over her lips before pulling back a little again. "No matter what our future holds, *nothing* besides this will ever be true." 

Her tears flowed more steadily, as he leaned down to kiss them softly from her face, his strokes simultaneously more insistent. Her whole depths trembled and sang with the feeling of him; she was only a few seconds from orgasm. 

"Now, please," he begged, his voice breaking a little; he connected more strongly with her, as a tremor racked her. "Come with me." He stroked unspeakably deeply--slightly roughly into the heart of her core, as his lips descended upon hers. 

Her cry of pleasure was caught in her throat; she was bucking insanely against him--her body trembling wildly. 

He groaned in the kiss himself. Then, he repeated his incredible stroke three more times, before he came into her deeply, shuddering. 

They both clung to each other in the kiss, each of them trembling wildly with their pleasure. His warmth spread deep within her, trebling her already-racking orgasm, her walls tightening--rippling around him incredibly. 

They were both swallowing each other's groans and whimpers in the kiss, as they shook against one another. The warmth and love of it was amazing; they could feel the beauty of it singing through them, warming their blood with a comfort which was far more than simply sensual. . . . Their souls were whole once more, their lives' purpose achieved. 

They continued shuddering for a good while longer, as they stayed in that kiss--sharing their joy . . . healing each other's souls. They both felt defined and real here, their pleasure making them whole--connecting them in a union almost too angelic to be allowed on earth. 

When the kiss finally started to become less intense, they still had little desire to break from it. They simply continued kissing each other lightly for many minutes, loving the tender joy of their souls' embrace. 

When he finally pulled back from the kiss, they were both crying slightly. Their union had been so perfect--so healing; they hated terribly that it had to be a goodbye. 

He leaned in to kiss her lips softly before pulling back again. "I love you, Nikita," he stated simply. He shook his head. "There'll never be anyone else." 

She smiled at him and leaned up to kiss him softly, as well, leaning back before he could catch her in it. Her hand stroked over his cheek. "I love you, Michael," she whispered. She shook her head slightly, "no matter what else there is, besides that, I will love you." 

************ 

He smiled at her and leaned in to kiss her tenderly, for a second, before pulling back. He sighed, a resigned look coming over his face. "We need to get moving." 

She nodded, knowing he was right. . . . The fact that they both hated it wouldn't make it any less true. 

He gave her one more soft kiss before he pulled back from her, disconnecting from her with an unhappy--shared--sigh, sitting up. He looked at her with love, as she raised herself up on her elbows. She looked thoughtful for a minute. "I don't know if I can walk," she finally said--a slight, ironic grin on her face. 

He laughed softly. . . . God, he was going to miss their closeness. 

He did, however, understand how she felt; if he had to wear his mission pants again soon--he decided, things could get ugly. "Hold on," he whispered, smiling at her. His eyes searched the sheets for the oil they had abandoned sometime last night, but he didn't see it. Finally, he ran his hand underneath her back and came up with the tube. 

He smiled more deeply at her amused look. "I wondered what that was," she murmured. 

A laugh rumbled in his chest, as he took some of the oil on his fingers and began to stroke it gently over the well-used flesh of her arousal. Her eyes closed, her desire spiraling back dangerously into life. "Oh God . . . Michael!" She panted, her eyes reconnecting with him desperately. "We need to leave." 

He looked up at the window quickly to judge the time of day before refocusing on her. "We're not in danger yet," he smiled. He retrieved some more of the oil and then slowly ran his fingers deep inside of her. 

She moaned, her eyes closed--her head back, tears coming to her eyes; she was trembling slightly--her nipples were lovely, hardened points of desire. She was absolutely incapable of stopping him physically; he just felt too good, but she knew she couldn't withstand undergoing the arousal he was giving her, since it had to be unfulfilled. 

"Please . . . stop, Michael," she moaned--panting, her tongue contradicting her words to come out to stroke over her lip. "Uhhhhhh," she moaned, as his fingers stroked her more deeply, while her hips met his pattern. She whimpered. "Don't make me suffer with this need." 

He smiled tenderly at her, even though she couldn't see him. His thumb stroked her lower bud in little circles to match the tantalizing thrusts of his fingers. "You don't have to suffer, my love," he whispered. "Just come." 

"Michael," she moaned in protest, until his mouth spread the oil over one of her needy breasts--the nipple there practically moaning in pleasure from the strokes of his tongue. She whimpered, loving every second of the singing arousal he was gifting her with, but hating that he was having to be so altruistic with her. She groaned out her protest. 

He lapped his tongue over her nipple several times, as she whimpered, holding him to her. He pulled back for a second to focus on her; she forced open her eyes. "I love you, my `Kita," he smiled tenderly. His hand stroked into her perfectly--running down one aroused wall and up against a desperately needy spot; she whimpered. "Please," he whispered, lowering his head to her other breast, "take the pleasure I want to give you. . . . Please us both." 

She whimpered, unable to fight the loving stroke of his hand, the tenderness of his tongue over her nipple. "Yes, more," she moaned, her hips thrusting against his hand even more. 

"Mmm," he moaned against her breast. He loved her pleasure. 

She opened her eyes finally to see his throbbing arousal, as he sat on the bed next to her; it was a fact he was doing his best to ignore. . . . She, however, was incapable of ignoring it; it seemed to call to her--to beg for her touch. She had to answer it. 

She moaned, as her hand found where he had abandoned the oil. She squeezed some into her palm and reached over to caress the sac; his shaft trembled, growing further. 

"`Ki-ta," he moaned, looking up at her desperately. "N--oooo," he stuttered out, caught between a desire to please her alone and the astonishing feeling of her talented hand. 

She let go of him only for a few seconds, as she retrieved more of the oil. Then, she encircled his shaft, stroking the oil along it. "Yes, Michael," her eyes met his strongly--her desire for this obvious in them. 

"`Kita," he breathed, searching her look. 

She smiled at him. "Yes," she repeated. Her hand began to stroke along him more strongly, as she leaned over to take him in her mouth. 

"Oh God," he moaned, as her warm, wonderful mouth took him in--combining with the strokes of her hand to create a trembling need in him. Her mouth and hand tightened on him, and he grew larger still, as she gave a growling moan--loving his pleasure. 

He groaned deeply. "Yes," he begged. 

He knew what he needed now. Simply stroking her with his hand wasn't enough; he needed to take this final chance to taste her. 

He rolled over on top of her gently, his knee landing on the other side of her head. She moaned and pulled back a little to run her tongue around the tip of his shaft, which twitched in delighted response. 

He removed his hand from her by running his fingers up one wall. He heard her moan, and he leaned his head down to her depths, running his tongue into her deeply; she moaned desperately and took him back in, beginning to move faster on him. He then began his own pattern on her wonderful, silken depths. 

She moaned throatily, as she became slightly rougher with him, to his delighted moan. One of her hands caressed his sac, while the other met her pattern on his length joyously. 

God, he loved this--loved both pleasing her and being pleased by her. He began to flick his tongue over a desperately sensitized spot within her, and he felt her walls begin to tremble slightly around him, in the precursor of her release. 

She whimpered and moved over him more tightly in response. His tongue was *so* perfect, seemed to understand her every need and desire. 

She loved this--loved tasting him, loved the feeling of his throbbing, incredible length in her hand and mouth, loved caressing his sac, loved the moans that arose from him in his pleasure from her work. She adored that she could please him so--was comforted again that the pleasure she gave him was, indeed, very real. 

Even more than this, though, she loved the pleasure he received from tasting her--from touching her. The feelings he gave her were *so* overwhelming, after all; he was so much the embodiment of erotic fulfillment. . . . The fact that he drew an even greater pleasure from his attentions *to* her than he did in hers to him aroused her unspeakably. 

Michael, too, was beginning to understand the same thing. While he adored that he pleased her, it gave him a thrill so sharp it almost frightened him that she wanted to please *him*. . . . It wasn't something he would ever have asked for, wasn't even something he could understand, but when he heard her moan, as she tasted him, some tightly-bound cord of emotional control within him snapped loudly, letting loose a need for her--for her desire and pleasure--so fierce that its depths frightened him terribly. 

His tongue was a wonderful, singing warmth within her lightly-trembling depths. Her mouth and hand tightened even more perfectly around him, her desire for his pleasure--her need for the pleasure he gave her--raging within her. She spread her legs further, the thrusts of her hips meeting and encouraging the strokes of his simultaneously soft and rigid tongue; its almost-unbelievable length ran deep within her, hitting her perfectly. 

Her whimpers of need made him *burn*. Her strokes along him felt so good he was almost in pain from his arousal. . . . He needed them both to peak soon, or he would go mad. 

He took hold of her hips and stroked his tongue down into her core in short, rough little jabs. Her moan was high-pitched and desperate, her hips meeting him insanely, as she grew beautifully rough with his needy shaft, her hand also caressing his sac in a way so wild and perfect he wasn't sure he would be able to hold back his release. 

He held her hips up to him and pressed his tongue deep into her core, dancing the tip deep inside her. She began shaking with his perfect little butterfly movements and paused for a second in her devotions to him--at just the second he needed her to, in order to maintain his control. 

They were caught like that for several long, trembling heartbeats. Then he stroked into her roughly three more times, hitting her unbelievably deep with each one; she--at the same moment--ran one more, hard suck up along his shaft, wiggling her tongue along the tip for just a second before capturing him once more. 

They both thought the same thing at the same instant, "Oh God, I love you." They froze there for the space of two quick heartbeats. 

They both let out insane little groans, then, as they came in one prolonged, deep shudder. She swallowed his wonderful warmth, as she groaned--her mouth stroking him--divesting him of his warm release in beautiful little sucks, while he whimpered--his tongue stroking her trembling depths, as they rippled tightly around him. 

The feeling of it was incredible. It had been utterly unplanned, but they were both grateful for it--were grateful for the astounding, singing reassurance their cherished ministrations had given them. 

Once more, they knew that they were wanted. Once more, they understood that they could please the one person who captured their souls. The soothing, warming feeling healed old wounds, let them know--yet again--that all of their beliefs about the other's feelings were true, were real. . . . It was amazing. 

************* 

Finally, though, they realized, once again, that they needed to move on. He pulled away from her, as she moaned--both of them releasing one another, as they sat up to look into each other's faces. 

They searched one another's eyes deeply and lovingly for a second, before they leaned in to share a deep, beautiful, erotic kiss. Once again, they knew--without a doubt--that their souls were shared, that--when they were together like this--they were both inexpressibly, unsurpassably beautiful. 

They pulled back from the kiss finally to smile deeply at each other. His hands stroked over her face, his eyes incredibly loving but a little sad. "We need to start getting ready," he whispered. 

She nodded, her eyes steady. "I know." 

They both stared at one another for several more seconds, neither of them yet acting on their statements. They both knew that their time was almost over, that they couldn't afford any other unions--both in terms of time and their need to walk. 

She leaned in quickly, kissing his lips softly. "Go take a shower, Michael. I'll change the sheets." 

He nodded sadly, as she smiled, but he couldn't quite make himself go yet. He stared, transfixed, at her lips. 

She kissed him lightly again. "No regrets, my husband." His eyes shot back up to hers, to see both their humor and their sadness. "There'll be too much time for them later." She kissed him briefly once more to allay the sadness she saw in his eyes. "For now, let's just enjoy our happiness--our connection." 

He smiled warmly at her. His heart was glowing in his love, in his total devotion to this beautiful soul. He leaned in and gave her a warm, soft, lengthy kiss. She moaned, loving him--receiving his love. 

Finally, he leaned back to look at her once more, a smile on his lips. "I will always love you," he stated definitively. He kissed her--softly and briefly--again. "No matter what." 

They shared one more deep, loving kiss, before he began to pull back from her, rising to begin to make his way to the shower. His eyes were still locked with hers. 

"I'll remember, Michael," she smiled up at him. She laughed a little, ironically. "Even if I don't want to." 

He smiled back at her, reassured, despite her rather downbeat promise. "Good." He smiled once more and then pulled away from her look to walk toward the bathroom. 

"Michael," she got his attention. He turned to her, and she threw him the oil. Her eyes made her point. 

He nodded, a little reluctantly, and then resumed his departure. 

She sighed, lying back on the mattress for a minute longer. The oil had done its amazing work on her overused depths. Oddly, too, the addition of Michael's talented tongue had seemed to increase the oil's healing properties. She shook her head. . . . Section was twisted, but--in this case--she was rather grateful. 

She began moving, getting up to strip the sheets. The fact that she could walk at all--if, admittedly, rather stiltedly--was a testament to Section's scientific skills. She laughed, deciding this was an irony she could live with, and went on about her task. 

An hour and a half later, they had both showered and dressed, as well as having eaten a wonderful breakfast which Michael had made for them. . . . They were capable, of course, of getting ready much faster than this, but they had little desire to, right now--had no desire to rush their few remaining moments together. 

They both stood at the door, their love marks healed or healing--their power of movement miraculously restored by the oil. Nikita was wearing another of the outfits which Michael had ordered for her; Michael was back in his official mourning. 

Neither of them were ready to go yet; neither of them felt capable of leaving the place where they had been so wonderfully happy. They both just stood there watching each other, savoring these last few, treasured moments. 

Nikita finally decided to speak first; she was looking around his still-barren apartment. "Will you be alright here, when you come back, Michael?" She refocused on his--slightly uncomprehending--look. "When we came here together a few days ago, everything seemed to cause you pain." Her eyes focused on his, deeply and lovingly; she sighed a little worriedly. "Is that still true for you?" 

He closed his eyes for a second, a little hurt that she felt she had to ask. He knew, though, that she had only done it out of concern for him--out of fear of what would happen to him without his angel by his side. 

He refocused on her, as he approached; he just couldn't get over how beautiful she was. He knew, in a way, that she was right to ask the question, too. Staying sane while being without her--for even a second--seemed impossible right now, after all. He stroked his hands up and down her arms, as he stood close, finally answering her question. "No," he said simply. 

Her look was a little unbelieving. He shook his head at her, his eyes watering. "I still miss him, `Kita," he said--referring back to a conversation from their first day here. He nodded a little. "I'll miss Adam." 

Her eyes focused on him lovingly--amazed that he was now able to admit this fact to himself. His hand ran down her face. "But he's better off where he is," he continued, "with a woman who can give him the love he needs." 

"Michael," she started to interrupt him. 

He shook his head, asking to finish. "I loved him, `Kita, but I was never really his father--not in any real sense," he whispered, sighing a little. His eyes stroked over her face. "My real place was never with him," he shook his head, refocusing on her eyes, "was certainly never with Elena." His look was strong and truthful. "My place is with you." His thumb ran down her cheek. "Wherever that is--wherever that leads us, my place is always with you." 

She closed her eyes against the tears forming there. "Michael," she sighed, her love for him choking her. 

He shook his head, a second before he kissed lightly at her lips. "No," he breathed over them, "don't cry." She looked back up at him, as his thumb continued to stroke her cheek. "We're strong--more so together than apart." He smiled at her slightly. "We'll make it," he swallowed a little heavily, "even if we have to go through hell first." 

Her eyes were entirely devoted to him, her whole soul mingling with his--their love flowing between them. She reached up to stroke over the back of his shoulders. "I'll always be here for you when you need me, Michael." She smiled a bit ironically. "Even if I hate you, I'll never really walk away." 

"`Kita," he sighed. He examined her eyes for one more, prolonged second and then leaned in to capture her softly in a deep, loving kiss. She moaned and held him to her. 

They stayed that way, holding each other close, sharing their love in the wonderful softnesses of the other's mouth for some time. It was intoxicating. The warmth of their partner's lovely body sank deep into them--connected them; their love flowed through them--bound them together, reassured one another of its truth, its depth--its reality. 

It was several minutes later that they finally pulled back from each other reluctantly, realizing that the time had come for them to leave. They stared into one another's eyes lovingly, one hand stroking along their beloved's face. 

He gave her one more brief, soft kiss. His look, when he pulled back, assessed her--reassured himself that she was truly listening--that she understood his complete truthfulness. "I love you, Nikita. You're the wife of my heart--in this, and any other, lifetime." He shook his head. "*Anything* else is a lie." 

She nodded, her eyes loving. "Yes, my husband," she agreed. 

He smiled warmly at her and leaned in to capture her in one more deep, intense kiss. They both held one another in it for several minutes, just loving the simple joy of their tender proximity. 

They both pulled back finally, however, gifting each other with one more soft kiss before pulling away completely. They looked into one another's eyes for another few seconds before beginning to move closer to the door. 

They both stopped at it for a second, however, to take one last look at his apartment together. When they had arrived here several days ago, it had seemed a cold, barren place. Now, though, every corner of it was filled with their love--with the marvelous memories of their devotion to each other. . . . "No," he thought to himself, "I'll never be unhappy here again." . . . There were just too many beautiful memories to keep him warm in the future. 

They looked back at one another--giving and receiving their love in their deep gaze--before they turned away from the apartment finally and moved out the door. 

************ 

Coda 

Nikita walked into Section about an hour and a half later. She had simply driven around the city in the intervening time--enjoying its beauty--both modern and antique; she and Michael had agreed to wait until he called her in officially for her to arrive. Even though they knew that their masters were aware of their week-long dalliance, they were certain that admitting it to them openly would be a mistake. 

As if to assure her of this assessment, too, the first person Nikita saw upon entering the cold heart of Section was Madeline. The older woman gave her a chilling little smile, as she patiently awaited her underling's approach. "You're in early," she noted--her friendliness, as always, ringing false. 

Nikita gave her a half-smile back, brazening it out. "Michael called me in." 

"Already?" Madeline's eyes said far more than her words. 

Her underling simply nodded, her face pleasant but blank. 

She assessed her subordinate, half-noting the hint of an almost-healed bruise on Nikita's neck and the repressed look she bore--one which combined physical exhaustion and emotional satisfaction. She half-nodded to her, letting her assume dismissal; she caught her, however, as she walked away toward Michael's office. "How did you like your week of down-time?" 

Nikita turned back to her, her look blase'. "Was that what it was? I thought we'd just run short of missions for awhile." 

Section's doyenne shook her head slightly. "No." 

"Hm," her subordinate shrugged, seemingly unaffected. Then, she continued to move off, leaving Madeline's question unanswered. 

The older woman wasn't certain whether to be impressed by Nikita's growing skill at masking her own emotions or distantly angry at her growing impertinence. She did not agree with Operations on this; Michael and Nikita together were a dangerous combination--one which had only bred dissent. 

For awhile, she knew--of course, it had worked; they had been quite easily manipulated against one another. Lately, however, there was a growing closeness and understanding between them, one which had already led Michael to an open attempt at rebellion, when he realized that his former material was about to be canceled. Madeline feared that this unacceptable behavior would only continue. 

She knew, however, that separating them completely could have unpleasant consequences. She turned to begin her journey back to her office. But allowing them to become too close was even more potentially disastrous. . . . She needed to find a middle ground. 

Madeline's mood was thoughtful and vaguely disgusted. Her only angle in all of this had been the feed she had hoped to take from Michael's security camera--which was also supposed to give them audio surveillance of his apartment. To her suspicion, however, she had been informed that their feed hadn't worked, that there was nothing to be seen or viewed; she didn't believe this, of course, but she would help Operations pay back Birkoff for his various interferences in her own time. 

Right now, she needed to make plans. To keep Section's best--and most troublesome--team in line, she would have to lay plans for some truly insurmountable betrayals. . . . If the bond between them couldn't be used, it would have to be destroyed. 

Birkoff watched the brief exchange between Madeline and Nikita with a sinking bit of fear. Whenever anyone went up against Madeline, after all,. . . well, he feared for the "anyone." 

He had spent the last week destroying--and destroying all traces of--the surveillance that had been planned on the two lovers. He had tried, overall, as well, to avoid actually viewing any of the tapes or listening to the audio. 

He had, however, caught a glimpse of something the two of them had gotten up to in the front hallway of Michael's home--in full view of anyone who had passed, yet--and he had practically embarrassed himself with his body's immediate reaction to the scene. Michael had had Nikita backed up into a wall and had been feasting on Section's most-desired woman like a starving man presented with his favorite meal. 

It was Nikita's reaction, though, which had really gotten to him. Her moans and cries--which he had heard briefly, before he started erasing the tape, with rather shaky hands--tormented him. He supposed that he had never really gotten over his desire for her; even now, possibly even more now, he wanted her--wanted her to react to *him* with such abandonment, such joy. 

He shook his head and forced himself to return to the sim. in front of him. What was he thinking, anyway? Nikita would never come on to him. He breathed a little more quickly, his mind unable to drag itself away from this path. God, if she did, though . . . 

Nikita walked away from Madeline, managing to repress her slight shudder--completely unaware, as well, of either Birkoff's help or his fantasies. She had the definite feeling that plans were underway that would not bode well for either she or Michael. . . . Madeline definitely needed to be watched. 

She arrived in Michael's office to be greeted by his blank stare. . . . But she was, for now, no longer intimidated by it. 

Michael held his breath for a long second upon seeing her. . . . She was so beautiful. For a few rebellious seconds, all his mind could do was remember all of the ways they had communicated the last few days: their discussions--and partial elimination--of past betrayals and traumas; their teasing, joyful seductions of each other; their quiet, complete understanding in the loving aftermath of their passion; and their passion itself--in all of its softness, all of its fierceness, . . . in all of its love. 

He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. He couldn't let such thoughts play in his mind; they were far too dangerous. He had to stay focused, or he could get her hurt. 

He looked down at his desk, away from her spellbinding eyes. "Close the door," he ordered quietly. A second later, however, they both shuddered pleasantly, remembering such a line from one of their fantasies. 

He kept his eyes focused away from hers, as he turned on his surveillance disrupter. She could tell from his look that he hadn't intended to evoke that particular memory. 

The desire was there beneath the surface of his expression, nonetheless, though--despite his attempts to hide it; she smiled slightly, loving that he remembered. She came slowly toward his desk. "What did you want to see me about, Michael?" she asked, before remembering that line had also played a part in their fantasy. . . . Damn. 

He looked up at her finally to see that her slip had also been unintentional. An amused light flickered for half a second behind his look. Then, it died, as he pushed a p.d.a. toward her. "This is the profile of a fallback for the next mission. I wanted you to see it." 

She looked at him for a second, a little frightened by the disgust in his eyes, before pulling it toward her to read it. It detailed a mission where Michael would--supposedly--betray her, in order to allow her to be "sold" and taken inside a terrorist's organization; she would become a live tracking signal for Section, allowing them to plan their assault. 

She looked up at him, disgust in her eyes, as well; the beginning of it hit a little too close to home. "Who planned this profile?" 

His eyes were sad and apologetic. "Madeline." 

She laughed--mirthlessly--and set it down on the desk again. "Figures." 

He sighed. "I wouldn't do it, `Kita." He was referring to the gross betrayal the mission called for. 

She nodded slightly. "I know." And--for now--she did. 

"We may not have to face it," he tried to encourage her. "There's another mission being prepped now. If we can apprehend the target, this may never come to pass." 

She nodded and looked back up at him, appreciating his consolation but unconvinced. "We'll see." 

He nodded and refocused on his desk. She was right; even if they did catch the bomber they had the intel. on, that wouldn't mean that he would crack. There were no guarantees. 

She smiled at him slightly, pleased to see that he was trying to keep their promise, that he was trying to be more open with her--to share with her what information he could. . . . She loved him for that. 

Neither of them knew, of course, where this mission would lead--where any of the next few months would. They didn't know about the true mission which underlay this coming one--of the children this particular terrorist dealt in . . . and the far more frightening things which Section was planning. 

They did know, however, that they were lucky with this profile, really. Certainly, his betrayal of her in it was a little too familiar, but--at the moment, when they were still so close to a time when all of the betrayals had been temporarily put behind them--it was survivable. . . . They should be lucky enough to have this be the worst scenario that Section would throw at them. 

Nikita smiled. She was really only focusing on one thing, at the moment; she and Michael had made a promise to each other, and--so far--Michael was keeping it. She pushed the p.d.a. back toward him, running her hand just close enough to his to stroke her fingers over his skin. 

He looked back up at her quickly, his eyes reflecting such incredible love to her. His hand closed over hers for a fraction of a second, stroking gently--communicating all of his emotions. 

They stayed like that for several very long seconds, before they realized that they had to move--that they couldn't afford to be seen like this. She drew her hand away from his softly, smiling slightly--her eyes telling him of her love. "Is that all?" she asked him finally. 

He sighed, nodding a little. "For now," his eyes intimated at her. 

"Only for now," his mind added silently. 

She smiled at him, before she turned and left, knowing she couldn't really afford to stay any longer. She was, though, convinced of his love again for now; that was all it would take to make her happy. 

Michael watched her leave--watched her, in fact, until she disappeared from his sight down the hall; he sighed slightly. Their week together had given him hope, had made him realize that he wasn't alone in this life--that, despite all appearances, he never had been. And, while hope alone may not be much, to the world's eyes--for him, it was a miracle. 

His eyes shone a little in the direction she had taken. He had a wife whom he dearly loved now. Whether he could admit that publically or not, whether he could even be with her as a husband or not--none of those things mattered, at the moment. The wife of his heart was alive and beside him. . . . There was no way that he would underestimate this miracle, either. 

He felt certain, at the moment, that his separation from his soul's partner was only a temporary one. He had a sense of hope he had never known before. Even if it ended up to be short-lived, he had every intention of continuing to worship the angel who had given it to him from afar . . . for now.


End file.
